


One Step Forward, Two Steps Back

by macaroniandglitter



Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M, Original Fiction, Original Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-11-24 08:49:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 50
Words: 52,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/632598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/macaroniandglitter/pseuds/macaroniandglitter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sort of a love story told from two different perspectives, past and present.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sam, Present

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed. Comments and criticisms welcomed. I'm new at this!
> 
> http://asofterworld.com/index.php?id=924  
> "This place isn't for me. I'm going home."

The glow of the rust-colored light from the street lamps reflects off of the puddles on the pavement. The sidewalks that he follows home are dark despite the illuminated sky because they lack the pooling water that the street holds. It looks to Sam like the dark sidewalk might swallow him whole. He resists the urge to walk solely in the puddles like a child would play “don’t touch the lava;” the city wasn’t exactly notorious for its cleanliness and he’d just bought these awesome new kicks. Leaving work in the quiet part of town at 2:30 a.m. has its advantages, he supposes. Samuel usually loves the rain and he certainly loves not having to worry about his safety while he walks home from his late nights at work. He is grateful that he can be alone with his thoughts and his music. There are times however where he absolutely hates it. Like tonight - when the light parts of his brain feel like they've extinguished leaving only the shadows.  
He fumbles with his phone in his pocket – he doesn’t remember his pants being this tight before – so he can text Brendan. He knows his bestie never sleeps anyway so he doesn’t feel bad sending a text so late. Once the phone is successfully extracted, he opened a text to “An Excellent Fuck.” Sam kept this as Bren’s contact name because sometimes when Brendan thought he was so goddamn funny, Sam thought it was adorable. He typed out “I need you” and hit send before he could think about it more. He never says this shit in his usual texts to Brendan but Sam feels something foreboding around him, like he has his own personal thunderhead predicting a bad storm. It’s been a long time since he felt a storm like this one. It may even be before he met Brendan. He’s never really asked Brendan for help – he doesn’t really do well with asking other people for things, and Brendan is sort of wrapped up in himself. Sam sometimes wonders if Brendan gives a shit at all. However, after all of the times that he’s picked Brendan up after a bad night, or let Brendan stay with him when he was in one of his lows, he starts to think isn’t that bad that he’s acting clingy. He also might be a little more reckless and impulsive when the shadows are out, especially when he knows he can trust Brendan as much as he does. Shit, he was really starting to regret sending that text. He wants to put his headphones in before he sends another text to explain himself to Brendybear so that maybe he can think the next text through. Instead he fumbles the phone while trying to put it back in his stupid pants and drops it into one of the glowing puddles.  
“Motherfuck.”  
Fishing it out of the puddle, he watches the illuminated screen shut itself off. He is torn between going to see Brendan to explain himself and just going home. He decides that the “I need you” text was clingy enough without also showing up on Brendan’s doorstep - one bitchy text was enough impulsivity to last Sam for the next seventeen years of his life. He keeps walking in the direction of his apartment and hopes that Brendan is a) asleep and b) not creeped out in the morning. He heaves a sigh, too spent to be angry about the phone. He figures he'll worry about it tomorrow along with everything else. Sam is so glad he keeps his shitty old MP3 player from at least four years ago in his backpack. He can listen to that instead of using the iPod on his phone so at least he still has music. The Beatles blast into his ears at what should be a painful volume. He welcomes the sound of his "old friends.” He hoped he could count on Moshi, the ugly cat who had found him outside the venue three years ago, to cheer him up. He’s also got his guitar, and about six cups of tea to take away from the storm clouds, literal and figurative. Fingers crossed.


	2. Sam, Past

The boys met at a show when Sam was eighteen. Brendan had just turned twenty at the time. Sam was standing in the corner of the small but crowded venue, holding his camera. He loved the band that was playing, “Hopscotch Penguin:” stupid fucking name, epic sound. He watched as the set changed from the opening band that had just gotten offstage. Brendan worked at the venue with the equipment for the shows. He was an expert at the lights as well as assembling various pieces of equipment. He was also well-known in the venue as the owner’s nephew and because on occasion he fills in for a band on the drums when they need help.   
Sam was more of a wallflower than Brendan. He loved writing and playing music. When he went to shows, he tended to stay toward the back, out of the pits, so he can watch the dynamics of the band. Sam had seen Brendan there most of the times he’d gone to shows - and he had been to a lot of shows. In Sam’s mind, Brendan was “tall lanky tattoo guy.” Though Sam enjoyed watching him changed the sets (my god what an ass), he sort of blended into the background once the music started. In fact most things, like the crowd, stage, and anything else that wasn’t the band playing, faded into the background when there was music. Sometimes Sam would bring his camera to take picture of the musicians. He never shared them with any of his friends. He was a little self-conscious of his photography in that sense, but he really loved having some of his photos of the bands. He was happy just to have photos of his favorite nights all over the walls of his room. He also may have gotten Brendan in there a few times…   
Brendan, on the other hand, saw Samuel about once a week but he also saw a few other kids who went to most of the shows regularly. He was too caught up in his drama to pay attention to the regulars. Sam resolved to say hello that night after Hopscotch Penguin played because Brendan wore epic yellow and black checkered shoes. Sam fucking loves shoes almost as much as he loves music. After watching this kid assemble and disassemble the pieces of things he loved the most for months and now is participating in his other favorite hobby of wearing awesome shoes, it must be a sign that Sam should talk to him. He didn’t want to leave before H.P. played, but he swore he’d find tall, lanky, tattoo guy after the show. Though Sam denied it, he might have put it off because he was nervous – he’d seen Hopscotch Penguin play dozens of times and this time was not supposed to be special.


	3. Brendan, Present

Brendan is in the midst of exploring the dark depths of the internet– the hours between two and five were clearly the best time for this – when his phone explodes with sound. He jumps almost off of his bed where he's sitting and barely avoids throwing his very expensive laptop across the room. Evidently all these nights awake were having some kind of impact on his startle response despite his best efforts to deny that it affected him in any way. He giggles at his jumpiness and resituates himself on the bed, checking the text. He is still grinning when he sees it's from his Sammy. Sammy’s texts made the long nights awake much more fun. But the smile drops off his face as he flips the top of his phone up – yes, flips; he likes his old phone thank you very much – and reads the text: “I need you.”  
“Oh shit.”  
Brendan can’t remember a time when Sam needed him. It was and is always the other way around. He couldn’t possibly mean that in general – Sam didn’t really need anyone. Brendan did the needing. He’s heard that Sam had a fucked up childhood but not what it had been like specifically. His dad is dead for a few years no, his mother is dead since Sam was twelve, and his brother Liam is always somewhere else. No one can ever count on Liam for anything, unlike Sam. Though Sam is private, he always seemed fine. This last week was sort of weird, admittedly, but that didn’t mean he thought Sam was in trouble. He uses this as a reason to justify freaking out. His response to Samuel was “Where r u." He waits a few minutes, then sends “???”   
They’ve known each other this long (seven years) and Brendan hasn’t ever seen Samuel cry or get angry. In fact, he hasn't even seen Sam move beyond moderately annoyed. He’s never really yelled at Brendan or anyone else to Brendan’s knowledge, except when something happens to his shoes and that's just funny. There was the one time when Sam broke up with his girlfriend that Brendan heard was a disaster. She had cheated on him and he lost his temper about it, but that was also hear-say from a mutual friend because he and Sam weren’t speaking at the time. Brendan counted Sam’s lack of emotional responses aside from tonight as yet another reason to justify freaking out. “Sammich I cnt fix it if I dnt know where u r.” Fifteen minutes and no response, so Brendan calls Sam’s cell, which goes straight to voicemail. Brendan thinks, "Well maybe he’s coming here and that’s why his phone is off.” He decides to wait until 3:15 (or maybe more like 3:00... Or maybe 2:55...) – which gives Sam (roughly) a half hour to get there before Brendan leaves his apartment to find him. Fuck the creep factor; it’s never stopped him before. He needs to make sure his Mister Samuel is okay.


	4. Brendan, Past

"This band sucks.”  
Brendan tells this too loudly to a coworker, close to the edge of the crowd. He doesn't give a shit if he is scolded for it by his uncle later. He did NOT enjoy Hopscotch Penguin’s music. Brendan had 'gotten to know' their bassist Kevin in the back of their van over the course of about six months. They had met at a party and spent the majority of the night drunkenly arguing about music. The night ended with them locked in the basement, naked on top of each other. Brendan was okay with it being a one-off, but then the next time they were at a party they started talking again. This time, black-out drunk was more like lowered-inhibitions drunk and both parties were still willing. They met at parties on purpose after that. Kevin had been rumored to be a bit of a player but Brendan wasn’t one to believe gossip. He was too often the subject and gave everyone else the benefit of the doubt.  
It was alright at the beginning because Brendan told himself over and over that they weren’t a “thing,” but he couldn’t help what happened as time went on. He might have sort of fell for Kevin. Kevin used to tell Brendan that he “was different” and he wanted to “really do it [a relationship] for real this time.” It was about a week after Brendan realized that he fell that Kevin had gotten bored. Then Kevin started leaving him feeling used and/or pissed off more often than not, and subsequently told Brendan he’d had sex with some random kid from the venue. Brendan had confronted him because he was upset: Kevin said “if you aren’t happy with the way things are, I’ll find someone else” and had acquired a new toy for the next show.  
Brendan hated having to fix their equipment before their shitty band played like he was their bitch, just like he hated feeling like he'd been Kevin's bitch for those months even if was only a few. He was getting paid way too much for this job and far too happy to complain… but he was allowed to hate one or two bands, especially if their bassist was a bastard! He’d met some awesome bands that came through despite the occasional heartbreak. Mostly the bands got big later, but he had gathered a lot of contacts from the job by the time he hit twenty five. Despite his growing black book, Brendan tells Sam and everyone that will listen that the "best person he met at his job is Samuel and he met *David Bowie* once!!"   
While assembling the drum kit, Brendan tried to feel better about his shitty luck having to be there for the bassist-fuck’s band (why in the hell did he say yes to take Trey’s shift?) by looking at the new toy Kevin had acquired. This one was much less attractive than the last three and it filled Brendan’s heart with glee to think that Kevin couldn’t find any cute ones. Brendan mentally prepared a speech to turn Kevin away, just in case, while he worked on set-up. Brendan hated that Kevin had a way of convincing him for "one more time" or waiting until Brendan was drunk and then taking him to the van where of course Brendan wanted it. He’d fallen for Kevin, even if he was cheated on, and it was hard to say no when he remembered what it had been like when it was good. Brendan hated being alone. He decided that night was going tobe different and continued with his mental rant. The speech rambled for twenty minutes about Kevin’s tiny cock, how hooking up with Kevin was only fun when Brendan was wasted or high, he couldn't tell the difference between Kevin and anyone else, and then crescendo-ed into a list of all of the people who Brendan had slept with that were better than Kevin. He might have embellished a few parts, but he might not need to use it. Drafting it kept his mind away from being angry. He was proud of it because although it wasn’t entirely true, he knew it would really get into Kevin’s head. Brendan smiled a little to himself until he saw Kevin’s arm around his toy’s waist. Brendan’s smile turned into a frown as he thought about how it felt like it was so recently that they had been together.  
Kevin glanced Brendan's way, smirked at Brendan's scowl, and meaningfully kissed his new toy. Brendan closed his eyes, briefly, and thought about his last kiss with Kevin. It was cruel and harsh, mocking, leaving him feeling used up and angry. He opened his eyes and his scowl deepens but he won't rise to the bait. This toy will be thrown out, too, like all the other toys that Kevin fucked tossed aside. He calmly places the bass drum with the set, walks into the back room, and punches a hole in the drywall.


	5. Sam, Present

Sam gets home at 2:45 because of his unusually fast pace. Trying to outrun the shadows in the rain is not a leisurely walk home. He was even more exhausted, if at all possible, and soaked when he finally got up in the obnoxious elevator to 1620. He thanks ‘God’ that rain falls down and not up, because his shoes still look pretty good. He throws his backpack on the ground by the door. There isn’t anything in it that matters if it stays wet. He shuts the door and immediately takes off all of his wet clothes except his mostly-just-damp underwear, a pair of blue boxer-briefs that his aunt bought him for Christmas like three years ago. His music player goes on the table in front of his couch. He is too exhausted and sad to deal with the wet pile of clothes by the door. He’ll throw them in the laundry basket later. He doesn’t really think it matters if he gets to washing them at all.   
One’s room and/or home can tell a lot about who one truly is, Sam believes, though his brain thinks that phrasing is a bit pretentious. His small flat is comfortable and it’s definitely wholly Sam. The entryway is a bit segmented from the living room that surrounds it. It features an excellent shoe rack for his favorite kicks just to the left. The rest of his collection he keeps in his room on racks in the closet. There’s a place to hang his keys above the shoe rack. The holder is a small metal hook with a fancy cow on the top. It’s ridiculous but it really helps; plus, he likes cows because of his mom. She had a weird ceramic cow that held milk for coffee and it was something that had stuck with him. He remembers her using the cow creamer thing even when she was drinking coffee alone. He’s lost his keys so frequently in the past that the locksmith knows his name. He bought it from a thrift store after too many embarrassing and uncomfortable nights with Suzanne the locksmith (who would not stop talking about how she would like to “ride Sam all night”). Hanging the keys up has thankfully become habit. The pile of clothes he deposits on the floor sit in a soggy mess just beneath the key holder. He doesn’t give a fuck about the floor but he makes sure they do not touch his shoes. The colors might get fucked up if they get wet and nobody wants that. Just beyond this small pseudo-room is the living room.   
The living room has an old, over-stuffed couch that Sam more than loves. Brendan says it’s his favorite place to be snuggled with Sam. Sam rolls his eyes at Brendan when he says this but he’s never going to get rid of it if it means Brendan will “snuggle” with him. The kitchen has a doorway that adjoins the living room and the bedroom is just to the right of the kitchen. The bathroom is in the back of the house and the only way you can go pee is by cutting through Sam’s bedroom. The living room houses his instruments – guitar, keyboard and bass – and the couch but not much else. Sam hates television. He thinks it’s boring and causes the few intellectual people in the world to go unnoticed amidst the bachelor shows or whatever they are. He’d much rather fiddle with GarageBand or play music than watch that “reality-that-isn’t-even-close-to-what-reality-really-is” television  
He drags his bare feet into the kitchen thinking he now needs the tea to warm up more than just wanting it to help him feel better. Moshi is purring and rubbing between Sam’s ankles. The fat fuck is probably just hungry but Samuel smiles at the affection anyway. He likes pretending that Moshi is his friend. He puts the bowl of food on the floor and goes about making tea for himself. By focusing on the process, he tells himself he won’t think about the storm cloud over his head. Mug out, tea bag in, kettle filled and on, Sam goes back to the living room. He sits down on the couch. He stares blankly into space for a few seconds, mind as blank as his expression before the thoughts rush back in. He wishes it would just stay blank. Then he leans forward and puts his face in his hands. He seriously hopes he can sleep tonight because he can’t stand another six hours of the black hole that is his chest.


	6. Brendan, Past

Fist still bleeding a bit, Brendan walked to the bar in the back of the room. He walked up the steps, flashed his best smile, and “sweet-talked” the bartender, Lauren, into giving him gin – his favorite. Lauren usually humored him unless she was feeling particularly cranky, seeing as they’d both been there almost as long as the venue had been open. Lauren and Brendan’s uncle were close friends from college. B sat on the stool at the end of the bar, near where the empty cups were left. He was able to stay out of sight from most people – especially because they were all too caught up with themselves – and still have an elevated position to see what is going on.  
Brendan and thus Lauren were used to this routine. Brendan gets upset or starts to feel down, Lauren gives him drinks until he’s nearly belligerent, and then Brendan finds some kid to go home with, have sex with, and forget the next day. Both were aware that it was not a great way to deal but whatever. Brendan had seen way too many doctors, therapists, psychiatrists, whatever to be persuaded that anything but self-medication can help how he feels. “Up” is okay because he doesn’t want to sleep, is excited to participate in life; he felt great. It’s not worth the trade off, though. He “down” because it felt the most out of control then. He can’t sleep even though he wants to sleep for weeks. Sometimes, he can’t even get up for work, his most favorite place. Brendan thinks that this time “down” might be coinciding with the bad news with Kevin: not a good combination.  
About three years ago Brendan barely knew what was going on in his brain. It took forever to find the pattern, the average time between ups and downs, and what worked best to combat each. He took up cutting, drugs of any kind, and staying in bed to battle the downs, then switched staying out all night at parties, sleeping with random people – both male and female – playing music, and arguing when he felt good. After time progressed, though, he found that he could write the best combinations of words when he is sad and play the best music when he is happy. He didn’t share his discovery with anyone, much like Sam didn’t share his pictures. He plays music with passion and his words are brilliant even if he doesn’t see it, and they are ultimately what made Sam fall for him.


	7. Brendan, Present

Brendan is restless after just five minutes of waiting. Even though he promised himself fifteen, Brendan calls again. No answer. He sits on the edge of his bed, phone antenna in his mouth, bouncing his leg. His bedroom is significantly bigger than Sam’s and you don’t have to walk through it to pee. In fact, his whole apartment is considerably larger than his bestie’s and about one thousand times neater. It’s so strange how their personalities are exactly the opposite of the space they occupy. Sam comes across as together, neat, organized, until you try to go into his room and the pile of shit prevents you from opening the door. Brendan’s apartment is immaculate. His room is organized. God forbid his lair not be! The closet (walk-in), dresser, gigantic bed, and nightstand are the only furniture. He kept all his other crap out of his room; he really thought it made sleeping harder. He has a few photos here but the majority resides in the next room over – the Studio. Here he has literally hundreds of records, a desk and computer, several amps, two basses, a guitar he can’t play that he bought for Sam, and his fantastic beautiful amazing drum set. She was the first thing he actually managed to save up for and he’s never saved since. He’s very proud of her.  
His studio and bedroom connect into a hallway that allows access to the bathroom, living room, and kitchen. He loathes cooking but he manages to keep a few things around for Sam. Sammich makes the best food (even if he makes a horrible mess) and he’s the reason Brendan hasn’t died from starvation yet. Brendan doesn’t sleep and rarely eats during both ups and downs – things feel too complicated and he has too much on his mind to do either, usually. The hallway ends at the entrance to the loft where he has a mudroom. Sam was incredulous when he first saw Brendan’s new apartment because he couldn’t believe his loud, crazy, emotionally labile best friend could want a mudroom. It just seemed too pretentious. He had the money, though, so why not?  
“Relax, dumbass. He’s probably just got to plug the phone in when he gets in from work.”  
Brendan sometimes talks to himself. It doesn’t work as well as when Sam does talks him down, but he tries to pretend it’s Sam talking. He decides on painting his nails black again because they are starting to chip. He gets through three fingers before he gives up on that too. He closes the bottle and goes to the bathroom. He sees himself in the mirror and considers what Samuel would think about his lack of hygiene. Sam probably wouldn't care - he'd seen Brendan at his worst three years ago after Katelyn. Katy had really done a number on Brendan. Could Sam have had trouble with love? Or sex? He couldn't remember Samuel talking about a girlfriend, or boyfriend since the girl who made them fight. Brendan decides to shower. It’s something to do. He’s sure even though Sam doesn’t usually mind, Sam would prefer a clean friend to love him over a dirty one. Brendan has decided that no matter what he is making Sam snuggle with him tonight –   
“Oh, god, if he isn’t dead, or bleeding in a ditch somewhere, or kidnapped…!”  
He decides to try calling again before his shower, no answer. He jumps in and out quickly, puts on clothes, and throws on his old Chucks. He can’t wait anymore.


	8. Sam, Past

Samuel sees the tattooed kid go get a drink somewhere to his left. By now the band members were taking the stage. He was disinterested in them. He really just wanted to hear them play. Sam figured he could get a few photos in before they start and still be able to go talk to that guy about his shoes. Sam was shy by nature, but there was something about the taxi-checkered chucks that drew him in. He wanted some of his own, damnit. He hadn't ever seen any like that and he didn't know if he'd get to again. That was what he told himself, anyway. He knew he could just ask another night; the kid did work there after all. He wanted tonight to be the night he’d try being social – taxi shoes are clearly a sign.  
Sam loved the venue. It was always crowded and hot, disgusting doesn’t even begin to cover the state of it, and he’s pretty sure that one couch in the back has been used solely for sex, but none of these things matter. There was an energy in the air that you really can’t find anywhere but a music venue. Even this run-down piece of shit is magical. Anywhere you stand for a show was fantastic because of the size. Sam has seen a few amazing bands play here that later went on to sign big label record deals. Sam isn’t much for the mosh pit or trying to reason with the bartender so he can have a beer like the other kids but he does love taking pictures of the bands and of the people at the show. Sometimes he finds himself lost in a song or when a band is particularly amazing, he’ll put the camera down and just listen. Otherwise, he loves listening while capturing the moments with his camera. He had a fancy camera with a fuckton of different lenses and flashes. He brought only the one lens to the venue because he is afraid someone will steal the rest. He tried a new lens at each show after he bought the camera until he found one that he really thought brought out not only how people at the show looked but the energy and emotion that comes from music.   
This show, as he has seen Hopscotch Penguin more than once, is a camera night. On occasion when he really likes a shot, he’ll mail the photo to the venue. People take photos here all the time and he doesn’t want to brag about the pictures he take, so he sends them anonymously. Someone had started a small collection of his pictures on the wall by the back office. He was proud. He still wouldn’t tell anyone took them.


	9. Sam, Present

Sam hears the whistle of the kettle and wills himself to stand if only to stop the noise. He walks into the kitchen, pulls the kettle off the burner and turns it off, then resumes standing at the counter like he was sitting at the couch, head in hands. He’s thinking about B again. It takes a few minutes, but eventually he stands up and shakes his head like he is physically trying to clear it of the thoughts. He keeps replaying the last time he talked to Brendan in his head.  
"Stop it, Samuel. Everything is fine. Drink the tea, stop whining, go to bed."  
Talking to himself has never worked because it makes him feel crazy but he does it anyway. Habit, he supposes, from Brendan’s down nights. He’s tried hundreds of other techniques to try to calm down or sleep when he has nights like Brendan has, but Sam’s were less self-destructive: Ambien, alcohol, staying up doing something active all night, lying in bed awake. He is more than aware of Brendan’s brain and the way it works. He really understands where Bren comes from in his “down” moments, but Sam does not share this side of himself with anyone. He feels like the puddle incident is a sign that he should continue to fight it out on his own. Plus, seeing Brendan kiss that guy shouldn’t do this to him, even if he had just told Brendan (in a very Sam way – i.e. as convoluted and vague as possible) how much he likes him. He didn’t want to scare Brendan away – he is too important – but Sam couldn’t keep waiting for something to happen that wasn’t going to. He shouldn’t feel like he’d lost everything. Except he does.  
Moshi is done eating and is walking with his usual swagger out of the kitchen and into the adjacent living room, presumably to his favorite spot on the couch. Sam lifts his face and pours the water into the mug. Sulking while standing is less fulfilling than sulking while sitting. It had been quite some time since the last time he felt this miserable, and with such a sudden onset. He’d had a few times the last couple years where he was certainly sad and had a rough time getting up, but it was never quite this dark. Sam always just forced himself to get up, feeling guilty about work or plans with Brendan or other friends, and tries to believe that he has control over himself. He does a pretty good job of functioning despite the routine horrible sadness, he thinks. Sam thought about how he’d ruined his relationships in the past and was proud of himself for having just pushed it down for the last seven years. He doesn’t even know if Brendan can tell how Sam is feeling, particularly if Sam is unhappy; he’s never brought it up to Sam. Sam was hoping he’d have a better plan by now for when this happened again.  
Before he met Brendan Sam was living with his ex, Marcus. Sam almost smiles at the thought of Marcus and their apartment, but can’t quite get there. He never told Brendan about his ex because he would have to tell his friend why they broke up, and he felt like he couldn’t bear losing Brendan because of this shit, not that it even mattered now. It had cost him everything with Marcus. Sam thought he didn’t even like Sam from the start, so he was hesitant to trust. Marcus had been completely lost about what was going on when Sam would have some really bad episodes of depression. Sam wanted to be confident that he and Marcus were really committed before he let anyone in completely. It had been a little while until Sam got the balls to explain himself. Marcus was understanding and concerned like he felt like he should be, but he was clearly put off. When Sam had a night like tonight, Sam finally explained himself. He’d needed Marcus’ help and honestly thought that Marcus would be the one to make things better. Sam was wrong. Marcus waited until he was sure Sam was safe and then moved out. He couldn’t handle “random bouts of emotional baggage” because “the unpredictability would kill him.” Sam couldn’t even be mad at him; who would want to stay after that? Your boyfriend of two years calling because he got scared after trying to slit his wrists on the bathroom floor is not something one soon forgets. He has as few connections as he did then and now he’s figured out that he never really had Brendan – why bother? Sam shakes his head. Hard. This isn’t helping, fucking idiot. The awkward overstuffed salmon-colored couch is calling to him from the living room. He has some battery left on his player thing, maybe it will last until morning. He knows now that sleep isn't coming.


	10. Brendan, Past

Brendan was getting hammered at the bar in the back of the venue. He decided that he also really liked Lauren for her assistance in his intoxication and needed to tell her so.  
“LAUREN you are more than the best. You are the… most best.”  
Lauren rolled her eyes and gave B one of the looks Brendan got when he was drunk. Lauren was always kind to him in an "I pity you" sort of way. Brendan drank a lot more these days and Lauren was always there to help. He decided that even though drinking messed with his meds, it helped him forget the bullshit for a while and thus it was worth it. He really fucking loved Lauren for helping him through his difficult times. Lauren was the most best. Earlier, Brendan had finished setting up for the night and told his uncle that this probably wasn't the best time for him to work. His uncle was an understanding guy and knew how much Brendan loved working at the venue. He also didn't give a shit what Brendan did as long as the shows went on and the bands were happy. Brendan made his way over and sat at the bar. He was already through his fourth gin and tonic, fifth shot of whiskey, and was moving rapidly toward his first shot of tequila at this point.  
"Booooo Penguins. Who names their band that? Fuckin' idiots, that's who."  
Brendan noticed a kid walking toward him. He wasn't too drunk to function yet, so he could tell the kid was moderately tall with brown hair, glasses, and a serious lack of both fashion sense and eye contact. He had nice kicks though. Brendan smiles at the kid before turning back to the bar, to Lauren.  
"Laur! Laurennnn.... HEY LAUREN."  
"Jesus Brendan, what?"  
"More, please."  
Lauren heaved a sigh but poured more gin into Brendan's glass.  
"you want Tonic?"  
"Nope! Just the gin."  
He hears a voice behind him as someone taps on his shoulder. He starts at the touch, fearing that it's Kevin.  
"Um. Ireallylikeyourshoesthey'refuckingsweetIwantapair"  
Brendan caught "shoes" and "fucking" and "want." He turns around. It's the kid with the hot shoes.  
"You want to fuck my shoes?"


	11. Sam, Present

Sam stays on the couch for a moment, trying to figure out how the fuck he got to this point. He pulled his face from his hands and leaned against the back of the couch, hair sliding off his forehead so he could really see all the cracks in the ceiling. Moshi meowed and purred from behind his head, but Sam didn’t really react. Moshi sat down behind Sam’s head so Sam could see his tail swishing from time to time. The cat had every right to be annoyed, Sam thought, he wasn’t being a good dad right now. Ugh, his fucking father. It always comes back to that motherfucker, doesn’t it? Sam is so sick of the Freudian father complex bullshit. His dad beat him up regularly. He was allowed to have “daddy issues.” He counted himself lucky that he was smart and figured how to get out otherwise he’s sure he’d be dead like the old man.  
Sam’s had a ton of different jobs since he was a kid. The first was at this weird farm stand thing near where he lived as a kid. He hasn’t always been a city-dweller, but he definitely likes it better. Feels more like home. The farm stand paid him “under the table” because he was technically too young to work at fifteen. He liked it, though, and that was when he started saving to get the fuck away from his dad.   
He saved up a bunch of money, almost five thousand from that summer alone. He wanted something he could keep and call his. As it was, his dickface dad owned everything. Sam wandered in town one day after school, finding his way into a weird, run-down thrift store. He swore he hadn’t seen it before and he’d lived in town all his life. The owner was very very old and was excited to share some of his wares with Sam. Sam walked away with an armload of records, a player, and a guitar all for only $150! He was so excited. Music became his escape.  
He managed to get out at 16. He was emancipated after doing research about what could get you emancipation – he used that his dad beat the shit out of him. He didn’t prove it so his dad didn’t go to jail, but he did get the fuck out. Everyone from the Department of Children and Family Services could tell that he was getting beat up but nobody could prove it without Sam showing his scars and bruises. He refused. He got some help from the state for housing and he ended up getting a job at a restaurant for nights. He went to school in the day. He was in the school in the city then, so nobody gave a shit how he did, what he looked like, or if he slept through class. It was so, so bad. He barely managed to remember to eat most days because he was so tired. It was almost as bad as the year that his mom died, but not quite there. He paid his own rent in the shittiest apartment complex in the city, but it was cheap and included utilities. He could deal with the rats as long as he had his guitar and he could save some of the money he made.  
He finally got the courage when it was the summer he was seventeen and looking to be a senior in high school in the fall to ask for better hours. The manager let him have some more hours after school and weekends so Sam could start to sleep like a normal person again. He pushed through that too. He applied to college like all the other kids and got into the state-run school downtown. He was able to get a ridiculous amount of money from scholarships and government support – who knew? – and was actually able to go if he kept working through it.   
Sam quit the restaurant when his dad showed up drunk, once. He yelled at Sam and insisted that if Sam didn’t come home he was going to drag Sam there. The manager had to call the cops and Sam’s dad got in one good punch before the cops took him in. Sam was so embarrassed that he quit. The manager was clearly pitying when he asked Sam to stay, said that it didn’t really matter about Sam’s dad, and told Sam that he was a good employee. Some of those things were true but he couldn’t get that look out of his head. Fuck pity. He could go a week or two without really fucking up his savings. Sam left with a black eye and a promise of a last paycheck and recommendation. He just slept for that night and the day following, telling himself one day off was okay.   
Sam got a job as a barback at a trashy honky-tonk-esque bar in the heart of the shittiest part of the city. He got to play a set once in a while, when someone bailed, and got paid for that as well as his bar duties. He was always excited to play because he firmly believed that was what kept him from going crazy. It was a hell of a job, always getting shoved around by drunk douchebags and hit on by creepy older people (both men and women). Sam just ignored it the best he could, shoving his shit down further. That was when he met Marcus. Marcus played a set at the bar one Friday night while Sam was working. He wasn’t much older than Sam, maybe two or three years, and he sought Sam’s eye contact all night, on stage and off. He waited for Sam to get off of work which should have been creepy but it wasn’t, not to Sam. He REALLY wanted to talk to the sexy acoustic guitar player.  
“Come home with me.”  
Sam was sold. They were together for six months before it all went to hell. When the “bad thing” happened, Sam quit the shitty bar. He missed too much work but they were nice and let him quit instead of getting fired. He was really reliable and good at the job, so they took (fucking) pity on him.   
He got this job, the one he still worked at, just after he left the bar for good. He walked into the record store and just talked to the owner for twenty minutes. The owner took the sign down the next day; he was impressed with Sam’s knowledge of music and having called Sam’s last two bosses he knew that Sam was ideal. It was amazing, sharing his love for music with customers and helping them find the right stuff to listen to. He loves every shift, even the slow boring ones. How could he think that this bullshit job at a record store meant anything to anyone? It didn’t. His life as a whole was fucking useless. He did love Frankie, the owner, though. Frankie let him basically run the place. Sam smiled a little, thinking of Frankie. He’d been talking about retirement for months. Sam hopes he is still able to retire once Sam isn’t around anymore…   
Sam was surprised he hadn’t realized it was going this way before. Marcus, his parents, and all that other bullshit was on his mind. Did he really think he could just get over it? Sam spiraled, thinking about the reasons he should just give up and let go. He really didn’t want to get there again – he felt like it was pathetic and like it was the bitch way out – but what else was he supposed to do when everything was shit?


	12. Sam, Past

Samuel meant for that to go much more smoothly than it actually had. He planned out what he’d say before he walked over and then fucked it all up. It came out in such a rush that he wasn’t even sure what he’d said. That, and the kid was clearly on his way to fucked up. He relaxed a little when he noticed the severity of Brendan’s drunkenness, because then it didn’t really matter what he said. Lanky-tattoo-shoes won’t remember what he said, anyway. So Samuel took a breath and tried again.  
“No, I don’t want to fuck them. I want to know where you found them because they’re fucking awesome.”  
“Oh. I made them out of yellow ones. It was really easy because I don’t sleep so I colored them one night at like four. You should try coloring your shoes!”   
He grins, pointing at them and making a scribbling motion with his hand. Sam was horrified at this suggestion. It’s like desecrating the shoes! He did like that pattern... LTS keeps talking, though.  
“I found a lot of shit to do at night when I don’t sleep. Have you seen this band before? That bassist is a cock. Stupid penguin band. Want a drink?”  
“Um. Sure, I guess?”  
Sam rarely drank at this point because it usually just made shit worse, but maybe it would help him talk to LTS. The kid waved his glass at the bartender and the small amount of remaining liquid inside sloshed over the edge.   
“LAUREN! I want tequila now and so does—”  
“Sam; my name is Sam.”  
“AND SO DOES SAN!! wait, San? That's a weird name. Whatever, at least it's not like, apple or some shit."  
“No, it's SaM and I um, I really don’t want tequila, thanks.”  
"What? LAUREN! TEQUILA!"  
Lauren glanced in their direction and sort of grimaces at Sam. Was that supposed to be for him? or LTS? Maybe he disapproved of Sam drinking? LTS is sort of loud. Maybe he got her name wrong like he did with Sam?   
Lauren walked back toward the boys and handed them four shots of tequila. Nope, nametag says Lauren. She just doesn’t like Sam, he guessed.  
“Make sure Brendan gets home. He’s yours now.”  
The bartender looked down her nose at Sam.  
“He needs to step up his game though. You’re lower than his usual standards.”  
“What? I um, I don't know him.”  
"I don't care. You're helping him drink so you take him home."  
"But I--"   
Lauren had already turned his attention to another customer. Brendan had downed two of the tequila shots before Sam turned back around. Sam grabbed his arm before he could drink the third.   
“Stop, please. I do not want to have to take you to the hospital for alcohol poisoning. The ER waiting room sucks.”  
“Ugh, but Seth—”  
“Sam.”  
“But Sam I am not even drunk. I only had—”  
Brendan stops talking and starts counting on his fingers. In this span of time, Sam dumps the remaining tequila out on the floor next to them without his new friend noticing – yes, that’s how disgusting he floor is there – and places the shot glasses back on the counter. What was he doing? It is not any of his business, and lanky-tattoo-shoes is certainly not “his” as the creepy bartender said – he was going to go back to his spot near the band. His attempt to talk to this kid obviously was a bust.   
“Twelve! I’ve only had twelve, Sam!”   
LTS was grinning like he was five and doing show and tell in class. Shit, he’s adorable, Sam thinks. No, no, no. You can't do this Sam. Not your problem.   
“That’s wonderful. I really just wanted to tell you that I liked your shoes. I have to go… over there now. I want to watch the next band after Hopscotch Penguin.”  
“Fuck penguins! I HATE PENGUINS! ESPECIALLY ONES THAT PLAY HOPSCOTCH!”  
Brendan stands up and shouts this across the crowded room. Only a handful of people turn to look at them but Sam is now more than mortified. He needed to walk away from this kid who clearly needs professional help. He turns to go and Brendan grabs the sleeve of his hoodie.  
“You’re leaving? I thought you wanted to fuck my shoes. Here, take them if you’re going.”   
He bends down like he wants to untie them and almost falls off of his stool. Sam pulls him up.   
“What? No! Stop it. What is wrong with you?”  
“The stupid bassist has a new boy-toy and I don’t have anyone, again. He’s a dick. Stay away from him if you know what’s good for you – he’ll probably give you the- ”   
Brendan claps, then sniffs loudly. He was apparently more upset than Sam realized and he finds himself embarrassed and awkward again yet strangely protective of this kid he doesn’t know.  
“Oh. Uh, okay. Um – it’s …gonna be okay?”  
Brendan looks up at Sam from the bar stool and almost whispers, “please, don’t leave.”  
“Fucked.” Sam thinks. “I am so fucked.”


	13. Sam, Present

Sam stays on the couch for a moment, trying to figure out how the fuck he got to this point. He pulls his face from his hands and leans against the back of the couch, hair sliding off his forehead so he could really see all the cracks in the ceiling. Moshi meows from somewhere near his head, but Sam doesn’t really react. Sam could see his tail swishing from time to time. The cat had every right to be annoyed, Sam thought, he wasn’t being a good dad right now. Ugh, his fucking father. It always comes back to that motherfucker, doesn’t it? Sam is so sick of the Freudian father complex bullshit. But then again, his dad beat the shit out of him regularly. He should be allowed to have “daddy issues.” He counted himself lucky that he figured how to get out otherwise he’s sure he’d be dead, just like the old man.  
Sam’s had a ton of different jobs since he was a kid. The first was at this weird farm stand thing near where he lived as a kid. He hasn’t always been a city-dweller, but he definitely likes it better. Feels more like home. The farm stand paid him “under the table” because he was technically too young to work at fifteen. He liked it, though, and that was when he started saving to get the fuck away from his dad.  
He saved up his money from that summer. He wanted something he could keep and call his. As it was, his dickface dad owned everything. Sam wandered in town one day after school, finding his way into a weird, run-down thrift store. He swore he hadn’t seen it before and he’d lived in town all his life. The owner was very very old and was excited to share some of his wares with Sam. Sam walked away with an armload of records, a player, and a guitar. Music became his escape.  
He managed to get ou when he was sixteen. Hi tried to use that his dad kicked the shit out of him. He couldn’t prove it, all they had to go on was his word versus his fathers. Everyone from the Department of Children and Family Services could tell that he was getting beat up but nobody could prove it without Sam showing his scars and bruises. He refused. His dad didn’t go to jail, but he did get the fuck out.He got some help from the state for housing and he ended up getting a job at a restaurant for nights. He went to school in the day. He was in the school in the city then, so nobody gave a shit how he did, what he looked like, or if he slept through class. It was so, so bad. He barely managed to remember to eat most days because he was so tired. It was almost as bad as the year that his mom died, but not quite there. He paid his own rent in the shittiest apartment complex in the city, but it was cheap and included utilities. He could deal with the rats as long as he had his guitar and he could save some of the money he made.  
He finally got the courage when it was the summer he was seventeen and looking to be a senior in high school in the fall to ask for better hours. The manager let him have some more hours after school and weekends so Sam could start to sleep like a normal person again. He pushed through that too. He applied to college like all the other kids and got into the state-run school downtown. He was able to get a ridiculous amount of money from scholarships and government support – who knew? – and was actually able to go if he kept working through it.  
Sam quit the restaurant when his dad showed up drunk, once. He yelled at Sam and tried to fight him, saying he was a man now and he couldn't call anybody. The manager had to call the cops and Sam’s dad got in one good punch before the cops took him in. Sam was so embarrassed that he quit. The manager was clearly pitying when he asked Sam to stay, said that it didn’t really matter about Sam’s dad, and told Sam that he was a good employee. Some of those things were true but he couldn’t get that look out of his head. Fuck pity. He could go a few months without really fucking up his savings. Sam left with a black eye and a promise of a last paycheck and recommendation. He just slept for that night and the day following, telling himself one day off was okay.  
Sam got a job as a barback at a trashy honky-tonk-esque bar in the heart of the shittiest part of the city. He got to see a great set once in a while. It was a hell of a job, always getting shoved around by drunk douchebags and hit on by creepy older women. Sam just ignored it the best he could, shoving his shit down further. That was when he met Marcus. Marcus played a set at the bar one Friday night while Sam was working. He wasn’t much older than Sam, maybe two or three years, and he sought Sam’s eye contact all night, on stage and off. He waited for Sam to get off of work which should have been creepy but it wasn’t, not to Sam. He REALLY wanted to talk to the sexy acoustic guitar player.  
“Come home with me.”  
Sam was sold. They were together for six months before it all went to hell. When the “bad thing” happened, Sam quit the shitty bar. He missed too much work but they were nice and let him quit instead of getting fired. He was really reliable and good at the job, so they took (fucking) pity on him.  
He got this job, the one he still worked at, just after he left the bar for good. He walked into the record store and just talked to the owner for twenty minutes. The owner took the sign down the next day; he was impressed with Sam’s knowledge of music and having called Sam’s last two bosses he knew that Sam was ideal. It was amazing, sharing his love for music with customers and helping them find the right stuff to listen to. He loves every shift, even the slow boring ones. How could he think that this bullshit job at a record store meant anything to anyone? It didn’t. His life as a whole was fucking useless. He did love Frankie, the owner, though. Frankie let him basically run the place. Sam smiled a little, thinking of Frankie. He’d been talking about retirement for months. Sam hopes he is still able to retire once Sam isn’t around anymore…  
Sam was surprised he hadn’t realized it was going this way before. Marcus, his parents, and all that other bullshit was on his mind. Did he really think he could just get over it? Sam spiraled, thinking about the reasons he should just give up and let go. He really didn’t want to get there again – he felt like it was pathetic and like it was the bitch way out – but what else was he supposed to do when everything was shit?


	14. Brendan, Present

The door slammed shut behind Brendan as stepped out of his building into the rain. He barely noticed that it was pouring as he started walking in the direction of Sam’s building. He usually was okay getting around the city on foot but tonight he wished he could move a little faster. Total, Sam’s house was about four miles from his apartment. When he was a kid and ran track in his (pretentious) high school, he could run a 5:30 mile but he was a long way from that. Now he could probably do seven if he really tried. So, maybe thirty, thirty five to Sam’s?  
Brendan mentally calculates the time it will take to walk to Sam’s versus how long it would take someone to overdose. Brendan’s mind gets away from him and spirals sometimes. He is in the middle of thinking about pre-emptively calling 911. Brendan believes can see his irrationality sometimes.  
He trades this thought for the option of starting to all-out sprint to Sam’s building, which is about thirty blocks away now. He’s got maybe three miles to go. Brendan is a skinny kid but he’s got great endurance. He thinks about a taxi, but it will be hard to get one this time of night in this part of town on a Tuesday. If he calls them, it will take too long to pick him up. He makes it six blocks before he stops to call again. Straight to voicemail.  
He picks up the pace, making it fifteen blocks this time. He knows the walking route to Sam’s because sometimes when he’s having a sleepless night, he’ll walk to Sam’s without telling Sam he’s coming. He’ll show up at Sam’s building, weasel his way in – the code to the door is easy to remember, 60652 – and knock on Sam’s door. This usually occurs around 3:30-4:30 a.m. Sam never complains, just opens the door and lets Brendan come not-sleep in his bed with him. Brendan has even acquired his own set of keys “in case.” Sam has tried a few times to stay awake with Brendan but he never really manages. Brendan doesn’t mind that Sam can’t stay up and sometimes Sam’s even breathing and warmth lets him catch a few hours of sleep of his own.  
Thinking about all the times this has been Brendan’s evening, continuing his anxious spiral as he runs, he tries to think about what he’s really done for Sam in their years of friendship. Sam’s mom had died when he was only twelve, leaving him with his dad and older brother, Liam. Liam was sevetneen when their mom died and took it especially hard. Brendan didn’t know the details of what happened, just that it fucked them both up pretty good. Liam just up and left after. Sam has always worked really hard for what he wants. Ever since they’d met, Sam has worked to put himself through college, pay his own rent, takes care of himself alone. Sam hears from his brother, who presumably supports himself as well, on occasion. Liam will always call Sam when he’s in big trouble (arrested, OD, etc.) or looking for a place to crash. He usually shows up at Sam’s strung out. Sam cleans him up and feeds him, then Liam leaves, barely grateful and certainly not apologetic. Mostly, though, Sam has no idea where his brother is. He was around when Sam’s dad died, but he feels sort of weird about how that happened. To his knowledge, Sam didn’t cry. He wasn’t sure if this was because he was a robot, he didn’t really feel connected to his father, or because Sam didn’t let anybody see anything but his walls. They’d known each other for a long time and Brendan didn’t know which of the three most closely applies. Sam doesn’t let anybody in and Brendan doesn’t know how to keep people out.  
Bren had made it twenty six blocks before he slowed down to a walk again. He only had four to go and he didn’t want to show up out of breath and look stupid if Sam was actually okay. But what if he’s not? Brendan rounded the corner of Sam’s street, finally, thinking only of getting to the building. His mind was exploring all possibilities of what could be happening and wasn’t paying attention to much else. In front of him, a rather bulky white guy with a large hood up over his head comes down the side street behind a bunch of apartment buildings. Brendan thinks vaguely that he’s sketch, shoos the thought away with “this is the safe part of town,” and resumes ruminating on Sam. He’s caught off guard, then, when the guy walks up to him, grabs his arms, and slams him into the wall.


	15. Sam, Past

Sam looked Brendan and his sad eyes over and sighed again. He will bring mopey-pants/LTS/Brendan? home and he can forget this happened. Sam attempted to pull Brendan up off the stool. Damn this kid was heavy for being a lanky motherfucker. At first, it seemed to Sam like it had been a victory, until Brendan started to waver a little. Sam wasn’t sure he could hold all 6’ 2” up even if mopey-pants is lanky as fuck. Sam caught as much as he could and guided the wobbly body back to the bar stool. Sam pulled a bar stool from next to Brendan? and sits in front of him, facing the bar. To others, it probably looks like they’re friends having a conversation. Brendan leaned back against the bar like it was meant to hold him up and moved the hair out of his face with his hand. He blinked big stupid sad drunk eyes at Sam. Sam thought to himself “I could be home now, uploading photos, playing some music and passing out on my bed.” Instead, though, Brendan made eye contact. He smiled slightly, suddenly looking a lot more sober and significantly more miserable.  
“It was supposed to be different with me, Seth.”  
Sam couldn’t even have been annoyed that LTS forgot his name – his heart was too busy breaking for this kid to care about that. Brendan leaned forward, resting his forehead against Sam’s plaid-shirt-clad chest. It was a little sweaty from the show but Sam didn’t think Brendan gave a shit at this point. Brendan put his hands on the side of Sam’s button-down and tried to pull Sam closer. He almost fell off his stool trying to be accommodating, so instead Sam stood up as Brendan pulled him in. Brendan closed his eyes and held on. Sam didn’t think he could leave this kid here if he tried. He waved Lauren back over.  
“What.” It was a sentence as it clearly had a period at the end of it. “You cannot have alcohol and neither can he.”  
“I don’t want alcohol and what idiot would give this kid something else?” Sam gestured to his chest. “If you want me to take him home give me his address and some water because he’s sure as hell not coming home with me or vomiting in my car.”  
Lauren’s scowl was less deep but it did not disappear completely. Sam had no idea where this disdain came from. He was driving this stranger home! Why couldn’t she do it? Lauren pulled a pen from her hair – there were several sticking out of the weird knot at the back of her head – and scratched onto a bar napkin. She held it out, then pulled it back when Sam reached for it. She grabbed Sam’s arm (gently enough to not jostle Brendan) with the other hand and made creepy eye contact.  
“I know what you look like now. If something happens to him, if he gets hurt at all, I will come find you.”  
And then she cracked her knuckles. Sam almost laughed at the ridiculous gesture, almost, – what, were they in some seventies movie? – but he bit his tongue and nodded at Lauren. Lauren held out the napkin, and Sam took it. Brendan stayed against his chest, holding on. He was as tall sitting on the barstool as he was standing. He took the napkin from Lauren – Brendan lived like ten minutes away, not terrible. When Sam looked back up, Lauren had turned back toward her other patrons without saying thank you. It felt to Sam as though she believed he somehow knew Brendan and it was his fault this kid was plastered. Then, one of the kids’ hands reached up and grabbed Sam’s wrist, gently, as if he thought Sam was leaving him there. Sam’s heart broke into even smaller pieces, and he awkwardly patted the back of LTS’ head and pulled the stool closer so he could sit and hold Brendan. Lauren brought a gigantic bottle of water. B wobbled but sat up and drank at Lauren’s scowling prompts. He somehow managed to stay vertical. Brendan leaned forward again, his face now very close to Sam’s neck. He can feel Brendan breathing, his face in the shirt collar, hand close to Sam’s hip. Sam is exceedingly uncomfortable.  
“Come on… guy.” Shit, he should just try to use the kid’s name. Sam has a horrible fear of saying the wrong name. A muffled snort comes from the collar of his shirt.  
“Really? Guy?”  
“Kid? Let’s go.”  
Muffled giggles.  
“Even worse.”  
“Then tell me your name dickface.” More muffled giggles.  
“I like dickface best.”  
“Okay, dickface, stand up and try to stay mostly standing this time. You can lean on me if you want.”  
He pulled Brendan up again and by some miracle Brendan stood, only slightly listing to the right. He was now clearly much taller than Sam, looking down at him.  
“Seth I hope you have a car because I walked here.”  
“Sam. I have a car but if you throw up in it I am leaving you on the side of the road and sending a cleaning bill to your enabler bartender.”  
B giggled again and held onto Sam’s hand.


	16. Sam, Present

Sam starts to feel his control slip. He’s tried all the stand-by techniques: guitar, tea, Moshi cuddling, lying down with his eyes closed thinking about his breathing, progressive muscle relaxation bullshit – all no help. Never works when he feels this much like shit but he was desperate to make the suffocating sadness go away. He vaguely wonders if he forgot his medication or this new change in dosage might have done something to make this come up. His thoughts have gotten loose now; he no longer has anything under control: he thinks about how he is as useless as he ever was, the one person he loves, with this much power, Jesus, doesn’t care about him, and he has nothing keeping him here - his mom must have left them because she was disappointed in him.  
His mothers’ death date was another month away and her birthday was another four months after that, so this spiral wasn’t about her. His chest tightens at the thought of his mom and he mentally slaps himself. Great. Let’s make it worse by thinking of mom. Get control back, Sam! He thinks of Brendan, again, and the text he’d sent. He wondered what was real between them and what wasn’t. He opened himself to Brendan last week which was fucking hard. Showed him the pictures! Oh god. He’s never told Brendan how he felt, since that first night of helping him home from the venue and when he finally does, he gets no reaction and then sees Brendan kissing that other kid. Kevin? Or something like that. Brendan clearly doesn’t give a fuck about him. Sam doesn’t know what he expected – B to keep it in his pants for awhile? To propose after Sam laid his feelings out? For Brendan to love him back? All three were laughable in hindsight. Now Sam was just upset that Brendan didn’t care enough about him to respect how Sam felt after he was shot down. He is getting a headache and his hands are shaking now.  
Sam stands up and walks to the bathroom. Moshi watches him go solemnly from the back of the couch, as though he knows this isn’t a good thing. He jumps down and slowly follows behind his dad, tail up. Sam allows Moshi into the bathroom with him and closes the door behind them. He attaches his mp3 player to the speakers and puts on something he hopes he can drown out the thoughts with. Moshi jumps on the counter next to the mp3 player and sits in the sink, watching Sam. Sam’s next idea is a shower with music and only thinking about the steps needed to complete the shower. He puts on the Isley Brothers and then remembers that it takes the shower around ten minutes to become a warm enough temperature to stand under, fifteen if you wanted it hot. You’d never know he pays seven hundred goddamn dollars a month for this piece of shit apartment.  
He checks the time so that he won’t have to keep getting up to check the temperature by sticking his hand in the shower. Has it really only been thirty minutes since he got home? Fuck. It feels like forever. Sam still had four goddamn hours to get through before it was light out… and why would the sunshine change anything? Oh, right. He thought he’d try to call Brendan…  
He supposes, then, that it doesn’t matter how many hours anymore. He has more than a few hours of being alone, now; he has an eternity. He takes the biggest towel out of the small closet in the bathroom and puts it on the floor by the counter that houses the sink and the few cleaning products he owns. He takes off his one remaining article of clothing (besides his bracelet that Brendan made but that doesn’t count – it’s only some string and a guitar pick) because it is sort of disgusting and not doing much besides making his balls shrink and his ass cold. Sam pulls his knees to his chest and tries to listen to the Isley brothers sing the thoughts out of his head. Sam tries to pay attention to the artistry that went into the Brothers’ music. Sam could pull apart the layers – the chords and the different instruments piece by piece. Hell, he can write you 20 pages on the choice of each damned note - but nothing works. He tries but he can’t push the darkness down and he gets lost in his mind. The song that’s playing suddenly becomes quiet and all Sam can focus on are his thoughts.  
“Jesus I can’t fucking stand it; I’m so selfish.”  
Moshi sits in the sink, his gray paws on the edge of the basin. Moshi is about four, or at least that’s what the vet told Sam. Moshi had gray and black spots all over his otherwise white body. They looked like blotches from spilled paint more than spots. Sam’s favorite splotch was hidden on Moshi’s tummy – what a pretty cat he’d found, particularly after Moshi’s first bath. He tries talking to Moshi who is now cleaning himself in the sink. He turns from Sam and he’s licking a paw in order to get at his face and ears. Sam tells Moshi, “I am such a failure, Mosh-man. Look at my life. No romantic relationships since Marcus, one friend if you can even call our codependent bullshit that, disappointed, dead family. Brendan doesn’t even care. I can’t call him my friend. He doesn’t notice all the shit I do for him… or why I do it. I can barely keep you happy, Mosh, and all you need is food and a clean litter box. I am so fucking sad and I’m so fucking tired of being so fucking sad.”  
Moshi looks at him with his usual quiet disdain. The spiral eventually reaches the inevitable endpoint for Sam – “why bother?”  
“I will never amount to anything. I can’t control my emotions. I wish that I’d just finished myself off with Marcus. Everyone would have been better off. They’ll be better off now.”


	17. Brendan, Past

Brendan was able to see the floor as he walks outside, the heels of Seth’s shoes from under the frayed bottom of his jeans. Brendan stopped for one final look behind him; Kevin’s angry expression followed them out the door. Brendan suddenly felt much better. He turned back around at the insistent tug on his hand by the tiny person leading him outside. Seth didn’t seem like the right name… Sal? Ew. Sam? Unclear. Something with an S. He knew he was going home, or he thought he was going to his home… or maybe he was going home with the tiny man? He didn’t really care. He pissed Kevin off! Yay!  
He remembers getting in a car or some sort of transportation that smelled vaguely like berries and feeling very very bad when it started moving. When he really thought about it, he remembered the rattle of a car, some cursing from the tiny man, and trying to climb up the stairs to his door while he felt something big and warm and solid under his arm. Brendan woke up lying face down, shoeless, tucked in, wearing pjs (and his underwear from the night before, so it was less creepy, he guessed). He sat up and immediately lay back down. The pounding headache definitely got worse and he felt sick. The next time he tried, ten minutes later, he slowly sat up. It wasn't much better but it was enough to stay sitting up without dying. Brendan noticed a piece of paper on the table next to the bed. Next to the note was a giant bottle of water and four white pills. Upon closer inspection, Brendan found the pills to be aspirin and celebrated briefly in his mind. He drank the water and took the aspirin. He lay back down for another thirty minutes until the marching band in his head decided to end their practice. Then he sat up again (still slowly, just in case), drank water, and read the note. The scrawl was tiny and neat, like it had been written carefully.  
Brendan-  
I assume that’s your name because it’s what the bartender wrote on the napkin she gave me. I changed your clothes because they were filthy from the venue and from your staircase ~~and from your vomit~~ I couldn’t get you to walk up the stairs - you sort of slid/crawled. ~~and you vomited in my car, dickface. It is going to smell for at least a month. ~~~~~~  
Your disgusting clothes are in the basket in your surprisingly clean bathroom. I put your shoes away in your surprisingly clean closet, and could not for the life of me get you to sleep like a normal person. You insisted on being on your stomach, spread-eagle. I give up – you will have to sleep facedown. I almost want to stay to make sure you don’t die in your sleep from vomiting but I think that might be weird. I hope you aren’t too hung over in the morning and are able to find the water and aspirin. Stop drinking alone. Strangers shouldn’t have to take you home. ~~You’re lucky I’m not a creeper! ~~Next time someone you don’t know takes you home, you might end up in sixteen pieces in a dumpster.~~~~  
“Seth” aka Sam (underlined several times)  
PS - any guy/girl who makes you that unhappy isn't worth your time.  
Brendan smiled at the note, especially at the mistakes he was able to decipher. This kid must have been adorable despite the fact that his mindset is clearly “DOOM.” He wished he could remember more. Maybe he was left with a number? Brendan at least wanted to say thank you. His phone... Where was it? He felt around on top of the bed and under the blanket that he was tucked into. Oh, excellent, under his hip. He must not have wanted to let it go when he went to bed. Shit – did he call anyone?  
He flipped it open and cringed. Sixteen texts, one voicemail, and four missed calls from Kevin, all between two and four a.m., and one call/voicemail from Lauren at ten this morning obviously to make sure he was alive. He wondered if maybe Lauren could help him figure out who the kid was who took him home. He knew it was a terrible fucking idea and that he should delete them, but couldn't help himself. He opened the texts from Kevin.  
The texts started like this:  
>>you left before I could proposition you. you looked hot tonight  
>>you know you want it baby - I’m hard just thinking about you  
Moved to this:  
>>Whatever, Brendan. I can do better.  
>>I can't believe you left with a child. What are you, a pedophile? He looks fifteen.  
>>I just fucked you because I knew you were always willing to get on your knees for me. It was almost too easy. I hope you enjoy your teenager because I have plenty of others just gagging for it.  
And ended with:  
>>I fucked the kid you saw me with tonight the entire time we dated. Sometimes in the same night.  
>>He was excellent then and he’s even better now. Certainly better than you.  
>>Hope you don’t end up in jail for statutory rape. Oh, wait, yes I do.  
He felt a sick and a little triumphant. You had to be pretty fucked to be both miserable and proud at once. Brendan deleted the voicemail without listening to it. It came after the last three texts and he was sure it could only get worse. He’d had a suspicion that Kevin was with someone else but he never had any proof. It was almost as if Kevin had saved it as ammo to get at Brendan at one of his more vulnerable times. Brendan groaned and crawled back under the covers. Fuck today, he thought, he was staying in bed until he had work.


	18. Sam, Past

In the week following Sam and Brendan’s inadvertent meeting, Sam avoided the venue like it was infected with a flesh-eating virus. He checked the website daily because he missed hearing the music but he rationalized to himself that he was too busy at school. He had gotten through most of his third semester of college but he had no idea what he’d do with this degree – a stupid BA in music theory – once he got it. He thinks that he might like to teach eventually but he has to make it through this shit first.  
He had exams at the end of the semester coming up and he tried to study for them; most of the time, though, he felt his mind slipping to yellow-and-black-checkered shoes and an untidy black mop of hair. He hated studying and blamed his distraction on the disinterest… but the truth was this mess of a kid kept him interested even when Sam hadn’t seen him in days.  
It was clear to Sam that he was a creep for even thinking about it because he was sure tattoo-shoes didn’t even remember getting a ride home… or vomiting in his car. It HAD continued to smell terrible for at least a week despite all the cleaning. Sam had honestly been trying to forget that night because even though he was brave and asked about lanky-tattoo kid’s shoes – his first attempt at being social in a long time – nothing came of it, and he knew now it was better to just not try.  
He looked at the venue page again the same day he made that decision. A band he hadn’t seen in person before was coming and he desperately wanted to photograph them for his collection. “Fuck lanky-tattoo-shoes, or um, Brendan... his actual name," Sam thought, he was “going to that fucking show and wasn’t going to be uncomfortable.” It was the following Friday and Sam allowed himself a little more wuss time: he just continued to not go to the other shows that weekend. He really should to study even if he didn’t accomplish anything.  
The night of the show, Sam shows up later than the doors open because he doesn’t give a shit about the opener. He may have tried to not look as much like shit through trying on every pair of pants he owned. He rocked his second favorite shirt, the loose, black, Trent Reznor one, over his semi-tight pants so he would look less fat just in case he might see “someone.” He also decided to rock his favorite shoes of the moment, teal chucks with purple soles and laces. Sam might have, a little bit, sort of, thought they’d bring him luck. Maybe.  
The main band hadn’t gone on yet and there was still space for him to find a good place for photos, right up front. Sam was trying hard not to think about anything but this band. He was standing near the stage, purposefully thinking about the lighting, messing with his camera settings, when lanky-tattoo-shoes (he couldn’t break the habit just yet) appeared seemingly out of nowhere. He tapped Sam’s shoulder and Sam whipped around, startled. Brendan was wearing a very tight pair of jeans, tighter than the night Sam had taken him home (those were a bitch to take off; he couldn’t imagine trying to take these—shit Sam, stop it), no belt, and a blue t-shirt that was as tight as a teenage girls’. Sam might have been able to see a little bit of skin and a hint of a tattoo where the shirt met his jeans if he looked down (which he WON’T.) He quickly derailed this thought with “Wow, his shirt looks very soft and very expensive.” Brendan also rocked fluorescent orange tennis shoes and a smile seemed too big for his face, like the Cheshire cat.  
“HI!!”  
Sam recoiled. He did not expect this kid to remember him much less for this kid to come talk to him so he was wholly unprepared.  
“Um. Hi.” Sam looked at his fantastic shoes.  
“Lauren says you were really nice to me the night you drove me home. It’s a little fuzzy but I remember you pulling me to the car and I found the note you wrote. It was really nice of you to do all that dude. Thank you. Oh, uh, [pause] and sorry for throwing up in your car.”  
Brendan looking sheepish was nearly as cute as Brendan smiling. Sam could feel his cheeks pink a bit; son of a bitch.  
“Uh, no” He cleared his throat. “No problem.”  
Sam looked at his feet for at least forty five seconds. Brendan had started to look uncomfortable and Sam felt like an asshole. His terse answers probably made it seem like he didn’t want to talk. He hated how bad he was at social interaction. He tries an actual sentence. Well. After he clears his throat twice.  
“Um, I hope the note wasn’t creepy. You were, um, really drunk and I wanted you to know that someone” – Sam cleared his throat again, blushed a little – “took you home and you didn’t do anything, um, stupid or anything you’d regret.”  
Brendan laughed at Sam, showing all his teeth. He watched Sam talk like he was the most interesting thing the kid had ever seen. Maybe he was high, or something. His Cheshire Cat smile stayed this time and Sam thought it was like the lighting changed. Things were brighter. He’d have to fix the camera settings again – maybe they switched the lights?  
“It wasn’t creepy at all dude, thank you for the aspirin and water. I always do shit I regret, drunk or not. And thank you for making sure I was all tucked in too.” Brendan showed Sam all of his teeth. “It was sw—” Brendan noticed the band walking up. “Oh, shit, is it time? Shit. Sorry – Sam, right?”  
“Uh, yeah. Sam.” Sam smiled a little even if he was feeling horrendously uncomfortable.  
“Sam. I will find you later. We should talk. Okay?” He was backing up and saying this quite loudly.  
“Um.” Sam has no idea what to say  
Brendan stopped walking backwards and looks vaguely concerned. He looks a little sad, actually. Sam much preferred seeing all his teeth than his face look like that, even if he looked like the Cheshire Cat. Sam cleared his throat again.  
“Uh, yeah. Sure.”  
Nice, he thought. He saw all those teeth again. “Awesome. Sorry to run off dude!”  
Brendan shouted as he took off toward the back of the venue where the sound booth was. Sam turned around toward the stage again, looked at his shoes and tried not to smile too widely. He was excited that someone remembered him but he really did not want to look like a loser or a creep. Sam smiled a little anyway and took amazing photos that night.


	19. Brendan, Past

The first time Brendan saw Sam after Sam brought him home, he wasn’t sure if he was excited for this band or if he was just in an“up.” He was bouncing around the venue fixing the lighting, setting up equipment, and even took a few minutes to rage with the kids up front for the opener. He walked back to Lauren, grinning, and sat at the bar.  
“Hey sweetheart, can I puhleasee have a water?”  
“Yes. Stop calling me that.”  
Brendan kept smiling and thanked her for the water. Lauren gestured toward the stage.  
“That kid you were looking for is here. He’s up front. Camera, blue-green shoes, awkward stance.”  
“Yeah?”  
“Yes, Bren. Please don’t eat him. He’s like half your size. Looks innocent.”  
“Lauren! You’re the best! Thank you!”  
Brendan threw back his water like it was a shot and bounced over to Sam. He remembers the name on the note. He’s so excited to talk to this kid.  
“HI!!”  
Okay, so maybe he was a little overzealous with the greeting. He couldn’t help it. This kid left him aspirin, fucking cleaned, and took off his fucking shoes before he left the apartment without stealing anything!  
“Um. Hi.”  
Not a good start for Brendan, but he persevered. He was too excited to feel rejected yet! He tried again:  
“Lauren says you were really nice to me the night you drove me home. It’s a little fuzzy but I remember you pulling me to the car and I found the note you wrote. It was really nice of you to do all that dude. Thank you. Oh, uh, [pause] and sorry for throwing up in your car.”  
It all comes out in a rush but Brendan can’t help it. He’s been waiting for forever (ie two weeks) to talk to this kid!  
“Uh, no problem.”  
Okay, clearly he wants nothing to do with me, Brendan thought. He was starting think about all the reasons why this kid wouldn’t want to talk to him and he deflated. Brendan was less bouncy now. He felt like he was buzzing instead, like a phone that vibrates. He tried to think of a (polite) escape plan but didn’t actually do anything but move forward from his heels to his toes and back a few times, trying to grab onto one of his racing thoughts (cucumber, fire in the back, have to pee, a bass riff, three pennies face up etc.). Then Sam talked again and saved him! Again!  
“Um, I hope the note wasn’t creepy. You were, um, really drunk and I wanted you to know that someone” – Sam cleared his throat again – “took you home and you didn’t do anything, um, stupid or anything you’d regret.  
YAY! Brendan was excited again and resumed grinning. Maybe he had a new friend after all. He was excited to keep talking so he said thank you again in order to make sure Sam knew what he meant the first time. He was about to start talking to this kid about the band but then he saw the band and realized he was at his fucking job and had to go work. He still wanted to talk though, so told  
Sam he’d find him after the show. He made sure Sam wanted to, of course, before he went back. He didn’t want to be a dick and make this kid hang out if he weren’t interested.  
Throughout the set, from the booth where he controlled the lighting for this show, Brendan watched Sam (in a totally non- creepy way) grinning like an idiot. He might have even seen Sam look back at him twice which made his face hurt from how often and/ or how big he smiled. His coworkers asked if he was high and if they could have some approximately five times. These “up” days were the best. He wanted to see this kid’s photos and talk about music so AND repay him for being his mom. Brendan decided on buying him diner food. Clearly the solution to a debt.  
When the show was over, he told his uncle he was leaving for the night – for which he got a grunt and a hand gesture – and bounced down to find Sam. Sam was walking toward the door. Brendan thought this might have meant that Sam didn’t want to be his friend very much but he said yes before. Brendan was determined to talk to this kid and just make sure... How could they not be friends? Sam was so nice to him. He wove through the crowd like a snake and managed to catch up to Sam before he gets into the car in this lot out back. He calls to Sam as he jogs over. Or rather, bounces over.  
“HEY SAM!!”  
Same enthusiasm, less surprise.  
“Hey Sam lets go have diner food so I can repay you for your good deed and eat delicious food with you.”  
He can’t help but grin again. Sam looked hesitant until Brendan’s smile grew smaller. Sam and switches his keys from hand to hand.  
Brendan calmed himself down again while watching Sam, moving back and forth on his toes and heels, and waiting for an answer, back to vibrating status. Sam seemed to calm him down as well. He was thoughtful and stationary where Brendan buzzed. He thought, though, that Sam must really not want to hang out if he doesn’t want diner food. It’s clearly the best food there is. He was about to talk again to say it was okay, that he didn’t have to go, when Sam agreed.  
“Yeah, alright, get in.”  
Brendan grinned again and hugged Sam. Sam froze and stiffened (not the good kind), and when B pulls away he looks exceedingly uncomfortable. Brendan pretends not to notice and is back to bouncy.  
“Woo! Let’s go!”  
They spend the next two hours at the diner talking bands and playing techniques and music. It was awkward to start, but Brendan kept on like the other times at the venue. He couldn’t shut up if he tried anyway. Eventually, Sam got really animated over the Beatles – “yeah, yes, I know it’s supposed to be cliché to like them but if you listen to their music, really listen, you can hear that John was honestly a fucking genius!” – and Brendan felt the uncomfortable, tense feeling dissipate. Sam has to take Brendan home around three when Sam realizes what time it is and that he has to work in five hours. Sam remembered where Brendan’s apartment was and Brendan is pleased. When they’re outside of it, B turned to Sam and hugged a stiff (again, not the good kind) frozen Sam and puts a giant kiss on Sam’s cheek. He pulled a now red-faced-Sam hand toward him, like he wants to take Sam inside. Well, he sort of wants to take Sam inside but he is behaving himself. Brendan writes his number on Sam’s hand. He always carried a Sharpie just in case. B bounced out of the car toward his apartment building. He waved enthusiastically from his front steps as Sam drove away.


	20. Sam, Present

Sam is thinking about the potential negative consequences of killing himself. He’s too far gone to come back from it now, but he hopes that at least Brendan – or anyone, really – will look for him before Moshi starves or gets dehydrated. His Moshilove shouldn’t suffer because of him. If he were smarter, or less desperate, Moshi would be boarded or something.   
He knows finding Sam’s body will upset Brendan because Brendan will hate having to deal with the mess. They sure as hell weren’t going to find Liam to deal with arrangements etc. Sam knew because he looked it up the last time he wanted to die that there are people that will clean up the literal mess for free – they charge your homeowner’s insurance, or renter’s in this case. It will be annoying for Bren to arrange all the stuff, but Sam has some money saved that can be used for a burial or whatever is cheapest. Sam already has a will that leaves his crap to B. “He’ll understand, I hope. I don’t have anyone else,” Sam thinks, “he will get over it, too, and be better off in the long run. Maybe he’ll fix his meds and find someone who takes better care of him.” Sam pulls himself up and opens the drawer beneath the sink. There’s some paper and Sam pulls a pen out of the back of the drawer. He kept paper all over the house in case he was thinking about something he didn’t want to forget. Sam scratched out a note to Brendan, asking him to make sure Moshi finds a place to go and can eat, and telling him out he can get the money out of Sam’s account. Sam apologizes for the mess, too, but he doubt the apology will matter.  
The note gets thrown on the counter by the speakers. When B turns them off he’ll see it. Sam goes back to the drawer. He never could bring himself to throw away the razors he keeps in here, even after Marcus. Having this as a way out feels safe, even on his good days.   
He has always felt like shit, as far back as he can remember. He felt like shit when his mom killed herself, he felt like shit when his dad blamed him for it, he felt like shit when his dad beat him up, he felt like shit when he had to get out find a different place to live at sixteen, he felt like shit trying to make his way up in the music industry because he has no talent and just loves music. Love is never enough anyway, obviously. He feels like shit every day, every single time, he sees Brendan, because he thinks “what the fuck is this kid doing talking to me?” Sam thinks that at this point, Brendan must be around because he feels obligated. He just stays Sam’s friend because Sam is so pathetic. Moshi jumps up on the counter, startling him out of his thoughts.   
Sam absently pets his purring cat. He thinks that he should probably put food out for Moshi. He fucking adores this cat – his best friend, exceedingly loyal simply because Sam fed him – and he wants Moshi to find someone who he can love back too, just like Brendan. He leaves the razor on the counter and walks to the kitchen, still completely naked. It’s sort of cold, but whatever. And it doesn’t fucking matter who sees him, right? He doesn’t have to worry about anything anymore. Sam feels relief wash over him at this thought. It will finally just be over. Despite the sick feeling, and the sad, and the dread that comes from thinking about the razorblade in the bathroom, he knows that it will feel better soon or it just won’t feel at all. He takes down a bag of dry cat food from the shelf, makes sure it’s open, and puts it on the floor. Sam pulls two gigantic mixing bowls from the cabinet and fills them up with water. He pets Moshi, saying goodbye, and figures the food will last at least a few days, until someone notices he didn’t show up for work if someone notices at all. He wishes that B will find his body soon. He feels guilty to have to cause Moshi the distress of his routine being disrupted.  
Shaking his head to clear the thoughts physically again, he walks back to the bathroom. He takes the blade off the counter and holds it while he shuts the door. He feels safe. The door will stay closed now. He’d hate to have his cat get a taste for human flesh if he ate all the food in the kitchen and decided to move on to Sam. The shower is still running and the Isley Brothers are crooning from his mp3 player. Vaguely, Sam wonders how long that will go on after he dies, if someone will find him here with the music still playing.


	21. Sam, Past

The second time Sam saw the inside of Brendan’s apartment, Brendan was both conscious and significantly less bouncy. Sam and Brendan had been in each other’s presence nearly every day over the past seven months. Sam would get out of work or school and go to Brendan’s or Brendan would wait for him outside for his shift to end. Sam couldn’t believe that this kid wanted to talk to him – he was so fucking awkward and shy and everybody knew Brendan. They mostly went to shows at the venue, went to look at local artists’ shows, ate dinner at diners or whatever was open, and drove around. The car was the best place for music and that was what they loved the most. So, even though Sam had classes and work, Brendan had the most horrendous sleep schedule there ever was and he was able to see Sam all the time. Sometimes he went three days without sleeping. Sam had no idea how he managed to function without it; in the past, sleeplessness meant shadows for Sam. Sam had to ask for a day off from Brendan now and then just so he could catch up on sleep.  
On the day Brendan brought Sam home again, he was actually feeling tired and was definitely in a “down.” They had been at a local show together and suddenly Brendan wanted to leave. He kissed Sam’s cheek as Sam held the camera to his face. When Sam got the photo and turned around, Brendan had walked out. Sam tried to catch up. He was worried - Brendan was always, always there through the headlining band - and he wanted to give Brendan a ride home. By the time Sam wove his way through the crowd Brendan was already out of the venue. His hood was up and he walked quickly toward the street. Sam had to call to him and jog (ew) over to catch him. He persuaded B to take the ride, at least. Sam had no idea why he wanted to walk – that, too, was unlike Brendan. He loved riding in Sam’s shitty old car usually. Some days, Sam would half expect to see Brendan’s head out the window and wiggling his butt in an attempt to wag a non-existent tail like a dog, he loved it so much. In the car, Brendan seemed not himself at all. He was quiet and it was freaking Sam the fuck out. He had slid down in the car seat, knees up and feet on the dash (Sam doesn’t care), hood still up, biting his short black nails. He wouldn’t look at anything but his knees. Sam was starting to get past worried to upset.  
“B? Are you okay?” Brendan was still just staring.  
“Brendan."   
[pause, no answer]   
"Hey, Bren?”  
“Yeah?”  
“You’re freaking me out dude. What’s wrong?”  
“Nothing, Sam. I want to go home.”  
Sam drove the rest of the way home quietly, but was thinking about how the hell to handle this. He knows quite a few things about Brendan - music, food, etc. - but he certainly wasn’t this kid’s best friend. They only really met about a half year ago. Sam had seen “up’s” and in-between’s, but no “down” periods. Brendan talked about them, after, but mostly Brendan waved it off, saying he was "down" and that he'd stayed in bed. Once, Sam didn’t see him for six days straight. Sam was about to go to Brendan’s and kick the door in to make sure he was alive when Brendan showed up outside Sam’s job, grinning like an idiot as if he hadn’t been gone at all. Sam pretended like everything was the same, even though he’d spent the last two nights awake, wondering if Brendan was okay.  
Sam found a parking spot outside Brendan’s apartment without asking what Brendan wanted. Brendan stayed sitting, and was staring at his knees. It seemed like he had no idea what was going on. Sam stuck his camera in the glove compartment and locked his car. He walked to Brendan’s side and opened the door, hand out. Brendan took it, stood up, and they walked to the building together, Brendan still loosely holding onto Sam’s hand. They got to the door and Brendan pulled Sam to his chest, burying his face in Sam’s neck. Sam hugged Brendan tightly. He felt more than heard Brendan say something. Sam framed Brendan’s face with his hands and tugged him up to make eye contact. Sam frowned, eyes searching Brendan’s face.  
“What, Bren?”  
“Come up with me, Sam. Just for awhile.”  
Sam slid his hand back into Brendan’s. He was almost as scared to go with Brendan up to his apartment as he was to leave Brendan alone. The kid was so sad he was holding Sam’s hand, leaving shows and clinging… but Sam had no idea how to help. Brendan seemed to know that Sam took time to think about things by now. He was getting better at being patient. Sam looked at Brendan who still had his hood up and was looking at his shoes. It was like Sam was holding the hand of a child. It made Sam unbearably sad.  
“Yeah, of course Bren.”  
Brendan turned around and unlocked the main door that led them to the elevator. Sam let Brendan lean on him on the way up. Brendan let them into his apartment. He took his shoes off at the door and then walked to his bedroom – Sam followed. Sam stopped in the bathroom to pee without asking. He knew it was only his second time here but he didn’t want to bother Brendan with stupid questions and he was too scared to fuck something up. He rationalized that it was okay because otherwise B would be cleaning up pee off his floor. He met Brendan in his bedroom. When Sam walked in, he didn’t knock because he didn’t expect Bren to be naked. Sam stopped at the door, mouth slightly open. Brendan had gorgeous tattoos all up his back. The largest one, a tree, started near the base of his spine to the right and wove up Brendan’s side and down his bicep. Sam had no idea they were there. He wanted so badly to touch them… or lick them, maybe. Yes, that. Lick. He was in the middle of thinking about which he would lick first when Brendan finished putting different boxers on, not before Sam saw his fantastic ass, and turned toward Sam. Sam was stuck standing in the doorway, mouth slightly open. Brendan managed a quirk of his lips at this, and Sam snapped out of his vacant look.  
“Come here?”   
Brendan was back to looking like a little kid again.  
“Uh.”  
Sam didn’t know what his friend was asking. Sam walked over and Brendan moved toward the bed.   
“Will you stay with me for awhile, Sammy?”  
“Yes, always. You’re really freaking me out B. What’s the matter?”  
Brendan smiled at Sam but it didn’t reach his eyes. He pulled the sheets and blankets back and crawled into his bed. The bed was bigger than Sam remembered. Brendan wriggled under and snuggled up by his pillows. He had his eyes closed and looked quiet. Sam wondered what “awhile” meant. He waited another minute or so, standing awkwardly, fidgeting. Sam was about to leave, was turning around to go, when Brendan opened his big sad eyes again.   
“ Sam? I don't want to be alone."  
Sam turned back around and was staring dumbly at Brendan, blinking. He thought he must look like an idiot with his mouth gaping again. His mouth was dry and his hands were shaky. What was he five? He was freaking out about lying next to someone else? For Christ’s sake he’d had a live-in boyfriend. Brendan made eye contact with Sam, and Sam managed to nod. Brendan lifted the blanket, a clear invitation. Sam assumed he was a touchy guy – he was constantly hugging and kissing Sam’s cheek – but Sam had never been in bed with him. He couldn’t help but wonder why Brendan wanted him here.   
“Sam? I’m getting cold. Come get in? Please?”  
“Um.”  
Sam had no idea how to respond. Hearing please from Brendan was like finding a million dollars just sitting on the sidewalk. It just didn't happen. In fact, the last time he heard it was the night they met, he thinks. B was a brat and got whatever he wanted, even without saying please. Sam almost smiled at this thought, because Brendan always takes his food off of his plate without asking or ‘borrows’ a CD. He doesn’t end up smiling, though, because he was still frozen in place. Brendan put the blanket down and rolled away from Sam. B heaved a sigh that sounded like he had the weight of the world on him. Sam decided that he would stay only until Brendan fell asleep. It would be like those sleepovers he had when he was a kid. He would play games on his phone or something for an hour and then leave. Sam walked closer to the bed. He didn’t want Brendan to be weird about him having his filthy jeans on in bed, especially after they’d just left a show, so he took those off, and his hoodie. Wearing his boxers (thank god they were the real kind today, were clean, and they were just plain – no cartoon animals) and his (also clean!) t-shirt, he slid in next to Brendan. Brendan rolled over, back to Sam. Brendan wrapped his arms around Sam. Shit. Sam was more than uncomfortable when Bren was close enough to touch to begin with.. Then Sam thought how sad he’d looked in the car and at the venue. Maybe he needed this?   
Sam tentatively put his hand on Brendan’s hip. Brendan tensed, and Sam immediately regretted his decision. He tried to pull his arm back. Brendan visibly relaxed almost right away and pulled Sam closer, curling into Sam’s collarbone. Sam hated being this physically close to someone not because he didn’t want to touch or be touched, but because he was sure he would do something wrong and fuck it up. Brendan moved forward slightly so Sam could feel his soft breath on his neck. Sam shivered involuntarily. Brendan, thank Christ, must have thought he was cold and pulled the blankets up. Sam’s thoughts drifted to the physical proximity. He was gross - not even close to the model material that Brendan should be with and was self-conscious about his body. Did he smell okay? What if he got sweaty? What if he started to get ...excited? Brendan’s mouth was so close to Sam’s collarbone. He hadn’t been in a bed with anyone for at least four months. Sam tried to relax by focusing on his friend’s breathing. Brendan was actually falling asleep, it seemed, based on the pattern. Sam hoped his complete mental freak-out wouldn’t show outwardly and B could get some sleep.  
Sam tried that thing he learned in therapy where he’d focus on his (sockless) feet, and relax himself, then his ankles, etc. until he reached his head. By the time he was all-the-way relaxed, Brendan breathed soft and even. The arm that was under Brendan’s neck was curled up into Brendan’s messy hair. Sam lay touching Brendan’s hair gently and thinking about how he wasn’t sure how he’d done anything to make Bren go to sleep. At some point, he fell asleep too.  
He woke up after the sun had come up the next day. Brendan’s mouth was definitely on Sam’s neck now. He had his arm around Sam’s waist, very close to where it was obvious that Sam had, had a good dream. Sam was suddenly not half asleep anymore. He attempted to formulate a plan to get the fuck out before Brendan noticed he’d stayed overnight… or anything else. He’d only meant to wait until Brendan fell asleep and felt safe - not sleep with the kid. He felt so creepy.   
Sam slid Brendan’s arm off his hip and on to the mattress. He slid his body backwards slowly, trying to ease off of the bed. Brendan rolled over, away from Sam, but didn’t wake up. Sam managed to get up without waking Brendan. He was proud but still fucking mortified. He put his PANTS ON and left before his friend woke up and found him there. He swore to himself he’d never tell Brendan and would just pretend he left when Brendan fell asleep. Brendan didn’t ask the next time they saw each other and Sam didn’t bring it up.


	22. Brendan, Present

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please excuse the word choice.

“Ow, shit!”  
He punches Brendan in the face and stomach, then pulls him up and punches again. Brendan can barely breathe. He’s pulled up again and slammed back into the brick. He’s cringing, ready to be hit again. Instead, he is silent while he waits for Brendan to open his eyes. The creeper somehow now has a gun in his left hand which he proudly shows to Brendan with a toothy smile that matches his demeanor. Creeper holds Brendan against the wall with his right. His hoodie is cut off at the shoulders, soaking wet and obscuring creeper’s face. Brendan can see tattoos snaking up his arms, much like his own but with shittier quality. They look like prison tattoos done with a ballpoint pen and needle. He’s roughly 5’10” so he’s a little shorter than Brendan, but he’s got at least a hundred poundss of muscle that Brendan will never have; Brendan’s wiry frame is nothing like the escaped convict’s. The guy was wearing what look like normal jeans that were slightly dirty and ripped in places, work boots, and the black hoodie ripped at the shoulders with a Kiss t-shirt underneath. Brendan can’t see this guy’s eyes – he can only see a mouth and a bit of his nose. This information flies through his head, thinking all in a rush “oh God, that’s a gun I’m going to die-why Kiss? they blow. Am I going to live to tell anyone about his stupid shirt? Oh God, that’s a gun. Oh God. He’s probably escaped from prison.” Convict speaks in words that sound like grunts.  
“Wallet, faggot, now.”  
Brendan cringles at the gravelly voice barking the commands and is horrified at the state of creeper’s teeth again. Definitely jail. “Oh Jesus,” Brendan thinks, “my fucking wallet is at home.” He goes to reach for his pockets when he sees the muscles flexing the tattoos on the creeper’s forearm, gun held tighter and closer to his chest than it was before.  
“Don’t do anything stupid.”  
“I-” Brendan pauses, swallows, puts his hands up. The street light on the corner is flickering and he’s beginning to not be able to see because the rain-and-blood mixture is getting in his eyes.  
“I’m going for my EMPTY pockets, man, okay? They’re empty. I’ll show you.”  
He puts his hands in his (tight) pants pockets and pulls them up for Escaped Convict to see.  
“It’s at home, man, I swear to God.”  
Escaped Convict raises the gun higher, pointing it at Brendan’s face. His heart can’t beat faster than it is now, he’s pretty sure, without killing him. Not that it matters because if his heartbeat doesn’t the gun will. Brendan backs up as far as he can against the wall of brick behind him and can see through the blood and the rain that there are no cars coming in either direction on this road. He firmly believes that these are his last moments on earth.  
The chain-link fence to Brendan’s right holds all of the cars in the apartment lot, just beyond the gap of the alleyway where tenants enter and exit. To his left, there is basically nothing but quiet and buildings, and the rain falling in the puddles in the streets. His blurry vision makes them look like splotchy orange paint spills in the road from the streetlights.  
“Let me show you – you can even have this hoodie and I’ll turn out my pockets.”  
Escaped Convict is now pressing the gun impossibly close to Brendan’s temple.  
“Please dude, just let me go. You can have my watch and cell phone and whatever else you want, except my keys. I will walk away from here naked if that’s what you want but please let me keep my k—“  
Escaped Convict punches Brendan in the stomach again.  
“Hnnngghhh…”  
“Stop fucking talking.”  
He spins Brendan around and slams his face against the brick, folding Brendan’s arm to his back and pushing his head into the brick.  
“Give. Me. Your. Money.”  
Each word is punctuated. Brendan reaches down with his other hand – the one not pinned – and empties his hoodie pocket - cell phone, keys, $15.24, a piece of gum and like four wrappers, and tickets from the show last night.  
“I swear man, that’s all I’ve got. Please. Here - here’s my watch.”  
He’s let up a little so he can empty the other pocket, under the surveillance of Escaped Convict’s glare and the barrel of the gun. He takes off his watch and hoodie as fast as he can and hands it to the creeper. Convict checks the watch out, tosses the keys and garbage behind him, stuffs the money in his pockets, and inspects the cell phone. Then, he holds his gun up and (presumably – Brendan can’t see his eyes ) stares at him long enough to decide where he would most like to shoot Brendan. Convict presses the gun to his temple, then he giggles a little. Brendan is fucking horrified. He, however, finds himself thinking “What will happen to Sam if I die now?”  
Escaped Convict pulls away quickly. He contorts his disgusting mouth into what might look like a smile on a normal human but on him it looks like a cross between a grimace and what might be a leer if Brendan could see his eyes. He pulls the gun back, cocks it, and aims at Brendan. Brendan closes his eyes and waits to die.


	23. Sam, Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this was meant to be Sam, Past. Originally it said "Brendan, Past."

There’s a lot of snow in their city. Almost everyone who is from around there is used to it or doesn’t really care. There are always a few people mixed in who freak out or think they’re invincible. Brendan thought these people were hilarious. He’d somehow managed to get onto his roof, once, during a storm, and now did it all the time. It was awesome to watch the idiots slide all over. The second time he went up, he paid a lot more attention to the city itself and the snow rather than the people. It was beautiful (not a word Brendan used very often).  
He fancied himself friends with the building’s maintenance crew – Joe, Bill, and Christian. They helped him out from time to time when he came home drunk or locked himself out. He’d buy them beer and invite them to parties that he threw.  
One night in November, it began snowing pretty hard all of a sudden. The snow would continue for two straight days and Sam and B would be trapped in the apartment together, bickering by the end. Brendan loved to annoy Sam, and Sam hated that Brendan loved it. That particular snowfall Sam didn’t have school or work which naturally meant he was with Brendan. They stayed at B’s apartment. They’d watched some movie about giant ants attacking people or something – Brendan loved ridiculous ‘scary’ movies – and it’d just ended. Brendan sat up from his supine position on the couch, feet in Sam’s lap under a blanket, and stretched himself out. He hadn’t slept again, so sometimes resting while watching a movie was really nice especially with his Sammybear furnace to keep him warm. He stretched backward over the arm of the couch. It looked like it was snowing up and accumulating on the ceiling. He sat back up abruptly. Sam had possibly been looking at the tattoo he has beneath his [navel] belly button because he looked up quickly and turned pink. Brendan grinned like an idiot. He stood up and pulled Sam up off of the couch into a standing position.  
“Come on! Put clothes on!”  
“What? Brendan, I’m wearing clothes.”  
“No, bitch, warm clothes!”  
Brendan pulled Sam toward his room while Sam protested, trying to wrench his way out of Brendan’s iron grasp on his wrist.  
“B, stop. I’m not going to fit into your clothes. Why are we doing this anyway STOP dude I don’t want to—“ Brendan spun around and put his hand over Sam’s mouth. He got really close to Sam’s face - enough to see how wide Sam’s (fantastic, green today) eyes got, and said  
“Trust me.”  
Sam paused, then nodded; Brendan showed Sam all of his teeth. He always won. He pulled the bigger hoodies he had in the back out and handed one to Sam. Sam glared at him, inspecting the article of clothing as if it were suspicious.  
“Stop it – you will fit.” He pulled his own over his head and grabbed two of his most fashionable hats from 1996 from the back of the closet. He was going to pretend that they’re for the snow so whatever. Sam had put the hoodie on, looking distinctly grumpy, possibly because it actually was sort of tight.  
“Mm, you look sexy Sammybear!”  
He sauntered over to a bright-red Sam, grinned, and stuffed the hat over Sam’s head. He pulled Sam to his chest. A muffled:  
“You are such a dick, Bren.”  
“No shit. You like me anyway.”  
Brendan let go pulled his own hat on. They looked ridiculous: Brendan in his neon green hoodie and black beanie hat and Sam in a too tight purple zip-up and a brownish hat with flaps on the sides and fur. He gave Sam a pair of his old shoes. His feet were the only part of him that was bigger than Sam besides height (that he knew of). He knew how important Sam’s shoes were to him so he was willing to sacrifice a pair of his own.


	24. Brendan, Past

“Fuck you Brendan! I do not have tiny feet!”  
Brendan smiled again. He was getting awesome at riling Sam up now. It’d only taken a year and a half. You’d think Sam would know when he was fucking around, but obviously not. Sam sat on the carpet and looked up at Brendan, hat hoodie and jeans looking ridiculous together.  
“Put them on so we can go!!”  
“Where are we going?”  
“It’s a surprise.”  
“Nothing is going to be open, idiot. I don’t want to go for a walk.”  
“Just put the goddamn shoes on Sam or I will do it for you!”  
Sammy must have known this meant ‘I’m going to hold you down while I put the shoes on in the most uncomfortable way possible so you can’t get them off without scissors’ because he actually put his shoes on.  
Brendan threw a pair on himself (he didn’t care about his shoes) and pulled Sam up off the floor. Sam was sort of hopping because he hadn’t finished the second shoe. Brendan could hear him complaining but he wanted to get to the roof before all the good stuff happened and you couldn’t see anything! Brendan pulled his friend into the elevator. Sam tied his shoe on the railing along the edge of the car, which made it the perfect position for Brendan to grab his ass. Hilarious.  
When they got to the top floor and Sam was still protesting loudly. Brendan was still ignoring him. It was sort of funny that when he was being bitchy it was easy to tune Sam out but the rest of the time, Brendan couldn’t think about anything but Sam. Brendan got to the door that led to the roof stairs. It was marked in bright red letters “NO ACCESS. Brendan used the trick Christian showed him to get the handle to just open the door without a key. Sam was getting more violent now, yelling about breaking rules and trespassing. Brendan was still ignoring him. They got to the roof and Sam shut up. It was so pretty – he saw the snow falling in big wet flakes all across the city. Brendan turned around and grinned at Sam, who gave one of his magic smiles back. The walked out onto the roof, kicking snow out of their way to reach the edge.  
Sam was still smiling and Brendan was really proud of himself. They got to the edge where they could see the network of streets beneath the building.  
“I had no idea your building was this tall, dude. This is incredible.”  
“I told you to trust me. I’m incredible.”  
“Oh shut up.”  
Brendan pointed out three people going at least fifty down the city streets, and four more that were moving more slowly than a human walks but mostly they watched the snow cover the buildings. Brendan threw an arm around Sam who leaned into the side-hug. They stood at the edge of Brendan’s rooftop watching the snow fall until it was too cold and it was time for another shitty horror movie and snuggles and tea.


	25. Sam, Present

The curtain on the outside of the shower is thick green heavy cloth that Sam picked out from a thrift store he used to work at that was only a few blocks away. He holds the material in his hand, soft and chunky, and thinks about when he and Brendan got it. Their trip to the store was like a cheesy video montage from a movie – all they needed was the music. Sam introduced Brendan to his friend, the owner. She’d since died and Sam missed her a lot. She’d really loved Sam in the way that a parent should love a child. Brendan made her laugh right away and he was “in;" then they were trying on hats and weird clothes, laughing at the ridiculousness of each new garment. Sam’s favorite was Brendan’s tight leather pants and orange ladies’ lace tank-top combo. Somehow Brendan’s lanky body could pull off anything, and Sam loved that he could see the tattoo on B’s stomach. It was a tree that arched up along the side of his hip and the twisted branches wound their way around the back and front of his torso. Gorgeous. It felt like a secret that he got to keep because not that many people saw it. Sam and Brendan ended up getting three (ridiculous and not practical at all) items of clothing each along with this awesome shower curtain and the table in Sam’s living room.  
Sam smiles, remembering that he’d had fun. He loved thinking the tattoo was his secret. The smile doesn't last long. He thinks about what Brendan is doing now, and then remembers that Brendan probably doesn’t give a fuck what he's doing, what Sam's doing, because B’s just around because he feels bad for Sam. He doesn't give a shit. Nobody does. Brendan has probably shown that tattoo to a hundred people plus those he’s slept with. It isn't a secret and it certainly isn't something Sam gets to keep. He can't keep Brendan. Brendan doesn't fucking want him.   
Sam thinks about the past few days. Brendan hadn’t texted in two, hadn’t called in five. It was the longest they’d gone without really talking in a long time. He doesn’t know Sam saw him yesterday but he knew Sam would be there. B was subbing on drums and Sam was glad to see him play on stage again. Drumming on stage was one of the times B seemed the happiest.   
Sam blames himself for the horrendously awkward conversation they’d had a week ago. The last text he got was “k gnite” and hadn’t received responses to his last three (four if you include “I need you.” which most likely went unanswered). Sam took this to mean that Brendan had finally realized the truth: it was stupid to hang out with someone out of pity, and Sam’s pathetic crush was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Sam knew this day would come and he could just kick himself for the blind hope he’s held onto for the last six years not to mention his stupid declaration of love.   
He steps into the shower – the water is a good almost-hot temperature – and sits down in the tub. His legs stretch out in front of him, pale skin, freckles here and there, and soft dark brown hair against a white basin. He can see the scars on his legs from his teenage years of cutting, the recent bruises from the fight he’d gotten himself into after work two days ago. He surveys his body mentally. Not cold, much more calm than before, no more shaking. Headache. His fist still hurt from the fight, sort of, but the water feels good.   
He closes his eyes, pulling his legs up close to his chest again, and takes a deep breath. He holds his wrist across his legs and opens his eyes again. He can see his one tattoo of the lyrics to some song on his inner bicep (If you could even call it that. It's hardly muscle). He thinks about how he’s stocky and built in all the wrong places, like his shoulders, forearms, and thighs. Who would be interested in that? Wow what sexy… forearms you have? Jesus. He can't believe he went on kidding himself like that after all this time.   
The thick blue veins running down his wrist to his tattoo and up to his shoulder mock him. Despite his desperation for both the horrible fucking misery and the black hole in his chest to disappear, it takes him awhile to bring the razor to the thin white skin. He hates that he is pale almost as much as he hates the way he is shaped. Sam starts thinking about how Brendan, perfect fucking Brendan with his lean body and tattoos that he can show off to anyone and everyone, would probably laugh in his face if he ever had to see Sam naked. Sam had fantasized about that too many times, coming, ashamed of himself afterward. He would feel like a horrible friend for thinking about Brendan every single fucking time (how did he not know that they weren’t really friends?). Honestly, though, those imagined moments were some of the times he felt the best.   
Well, so much for that. How could he have been so stupid? He spirals again, back into the shaking dark.   
Sam starts by drawing intricate patterns on his wrist with the razor. He can't feel any pain, just the beads of blood as they drip down his legs. The cuts look like spirals running the length – not quite deep enough for him to really start to bleed out yet. Crimson mixes with the patter of water and swirls down the drain, like the swirls he’s etching. He can’t hear anything but his heart pounding in his ears, his breathing, and the thoughts in his head. He feels detached, like he’s outside his body, and barely feels anything at all from the blade.


	26. Brendan, Present

Convict shoots the brick directly next to Brendan’s left ear. It was the loudest noise he’d ever heard and chunks of brick that break off the building wall cut his face. Brendan pulls in a quick, harsh breath and falls to his knees on the sidewalk. Rain is still pouring on his t-shirt, in his hair, on the backs of his legs. He leans forward onto his hands and knees and tries to regain some control. He can’t hear anything except a loud ringing. It takes a few seconds for him to really register that he isn't dead. Right as he's about to be confused, Escaped Convict kicks Brendan hard in the stomach. Brendan can’t hear or see and now he might have broken some ribs. Brendan lies on the cement in the middle of the city.   
Escaped Convict, satisfied that he won’t call the police or get up for a few more minutes, disappears. Brendan has no idea where the guy went because he can’t see from his rapidly swelling face, the blood in his eyes, and his inability to hear anything. Brendan is soaked and shivering, lying on the ground, and somehow despite what’s happening he’s thinking “Sam Sam Sam Sam Sam Sam…” He struggles but is able to stand up. He has to lean against the wall there for a few minutes, regaining breath and figuring out how he can walk without passing out from pain. He thinks he might puncture a lung with a broken rib or bleed internally if he moves too quickly.   
Brendan is able to stand on his own soon enough. He wipes the hair and rain out of his good eye. He sees his keys about one hundred yards away and shakily walks, slower than slow, to pick them up. He doesn't think he could be luckier - they were still here and he can still get to Sam. He isn't sure when this became a desperate need but he's got a horrible fucking feeling in his stomach that's not just the broken ribs.  
He reaches to bend over and pick up the keys, when he's close enough. This movement is jerky and slow but he does it, gets them in his hands, and he's able to start walking toward the building. He manages to make it there, slowly, slowly. At least he is able to weasel his way in the front. In the lobby and subsequently in the elevator, he gets filthy looks from Sam’s “neighbors.” He thinks about how much better Sam is than these people – they didn’t have as much awesome in a lifetime that Sam had in five seconds. He’s dripping and bleeding on the floor but he just doesn’t give a shit right now. He’ll pay them if it’s a problem later. He slams the button for Sam’s floor, earning a glower now and not just a filthy look, and then slams the door close button earning more stares.   
It seems like the elevator takes so much longer when you’re in a hurry than it does when you aren’t. The doors open and close lazily, as though they have nothing better to do than mock Brendan’s agitation. Finally, he makes it to sixteen, practically vibrating. He moves as quickly as he can, which isn’t very fast, to 1620. He knocks hard. Waits about thirty seconds, knocks again. Waits. He knocks one more time, waits thirty seconds, then uses his keys to open the door. He can see Moshi eating food out of the bag on the kitchen floor and his original discomfort is amplified exponentially. Moshi is on a strict diet after the vet called him a “fatty.” Sam was deeply offended (Brendan thought it was hilarious) and immediately started feeding him differently. He closes the door and takes off his shoes.  
“SAM?” he yells. He doesn’t care what time it is. “SAM! ARE YOU HERE?”  
Pause. He listens as well as he can, and he can hear the music from the direction of Sam’s room. Once he’s in the room, he can hear the shower, too. The music must have been especially loud because the shower sounds like an oncoming train. He can’t hear anything else, though. He walks through Sam’s tiny bedroom, and knocks on the bathroom door.


	27. Sam, Past

Brendan had taken his PDA with Sam to a new level after about three years of friendship. They’d spend nights sleeping in the same bed, cuddling, etc. for the majority of that time, but it reached a peak about a week before Sam found a girlfriend. It was a thing Brendan did – laid claim to his friends by physically touching them, especially when it came to Sam. And Sam… Sam was just used to it by then. He got used to sleeping together, to hugs, to holding hands sometimes. He knew not to read into it even though he wanted it to mean more than just friendship to Brendan, but he also knew his best friend was a touchy guy. At the show that weekend, Brendan kissed him hello. Not a quick kiss but one without heat or sex at all. Very Brendan. Sam was caught off guard but went with it, pretending it was something he’d done before and went to see Harley, who was serving with Lauren tonight. Sam watched Brendan kiss Lauren, down the end of the bar, as he ordered them their drinks.  
When he met her, Sam was elated that someone existed who liked the same music that he did AND said that the person found him attractive. He couldn’t believe it. In fact, most of the time he had to convince himself that it was actually happening. He shoved his feelings for Brendan down, hard. Fuck it, right? He’d never end up with Brendan. They were always going to be just friends.  
Sam met her on his campus. He rarely talked to people while he was there. He kept his head down and did his work and thus he went by unnoticed by most. He was outside, leaning against a column, listening to David Bowie’s self-titled first album. Sam had has back to the wall, eyes closed, head tilted back. The angle was bad, apparently, because his headphones slipped off his head onto his shoulders. He was so annoyed – you’d think the big expensive ones would stay put. He opened his eyes to fix the headphones just as this cute girl with tight jeans and short black hair was walking past. They made brief eye contact. Her eyes were such a beautiful brown, like honey. Sam dismisses this thought, “what kind of guy says shit like that?” She kept walking while Sam was readjusting the band at the top. Bowie blasted in the courtyard at a volume that most people couldn’t handle but Sam thought it was the best volume to listen to music. This girl heard his music. She turned around and smiled just as Sam put the headphones back on his head. Sam looked around, over his shoulder to see who was behind him.   
He propped his head against the wall again, headphones in place, and bent his knee with his foot flat against the wall. He picked his gray chucks with purple laces today; they definitely weren’t worn enough. The girl came over and stood in front of him. She said something, clearly, as her mouth was moving, but Sam had no idea what it was. He awkwardly pulled the headphones off again.  
“Um. Hi. I’m sorry. Uh, what?”  
“I can’t believe someone else noticed that album existed. Everyone says it’s the outcast of his shit.”  
“Um. I think that you sort of need to know the... uh, roots, I guess. Um. It helps to um, understand the later stuff.”  
“Me too. I’m Olivia. You have a class now?”  
“Uh, I’m Sam. I guess, um, I have one in a few hours. Um. I was just killing time.”  
“Excellent. Come with me to the stupid college coffee shop so we can discuss Bowie highlights.”  
Sam was bright red and completely confused about why this cute girl was talking to him. He rationalized in his mind that she had to be a lesbian and thus felt safe with a kid like himself. He looked like he was fucking fourteen years old instead of almost twenty two. He nodded and followed her. On their walk she started talking about Bowie’s evolution as an artist, a topic that Sam rarely got to discuss in detail, and some of his discomfort died away. His new lesbian friend was awesome.  
Sam and Olivia caught up several more times at the ‘stupid college coffee shop’ because it was convenient for both of them. The fifth time they were there, Sam was animatedly ranting about The Cure and how they are genius, when Olivia interrupts.  
“Sam, when are you going to ask me out? Are you gay or something?”  
Sam and Olivia have a series of awkward first dates (well, awkward to Sam), before he got the courage to kiss her. They had been standing under a lamppost outside the venue when he leaned in awkwardly. He put his (shaking) hand on her hip and his eyes fluttered closed. He heard Olivia mutter “fucking finally” before their lips actually met.   
Brendan meets Olivia three months after Sam has known her and approximately two months and three weeks of harassing Sam. Sam wanted to be sure that she was actually interested before he introduced her to Brendan. He didn’t want to have her laugh in his face when he introduced her to Brendan as his girlfriend. He’d been waiting for her to give up on him. Sam was bewildered when he met Olivia’s girlfriends and was introduced as the boyfriend. Plus, he talked about his best friend a lot but Brendan could be a gigantic pain in the ass to people who don’t know him. He prepared Olivia the best he could, told Brendan not to be a dick (he hoped that this would actually mean something), and braced himself for the storm that is B. It turned out that Olivia was sort of a storm herself. He was still navigating the waters with her. He hadn’t dated since Liam and that had really fucked him up… so when she was outrageously mean to Brendan, he was both surprised and not.   
In the usual Brendan “up” fashion, he came bouncing over grinning. Sam smiled his tentative smile at Brendan, and waved a little. Brendan plowed into him, almost knocking them over. Brendan dipped Sam back and planted a kiss on Sam’s mouth. Once they were righted, Sam’s jaw was hanging open. Naturally the motherfucker wouldn’t have consideration for meeting Olivia the first time. Business as usual. Sam closed his mouth and smiled a little in return. B smiled his devious smile at him turned to the girl who looked vaguely like him and grinned even wider.  
“HI! I’m Brendan! You are Olivia?” He reached to hug her too and she shoved him away.  
“Astute observation. Please stop touching Sam now.”  
“Wait, what?” Brendan’s smile faltered.  
“…what is going on?” Sam was beyond confused.  
“Do. Not. Touch. Sam. He’s not yours.” She turned to Sam, glaring, and said “Sam, why are you cheating on me?”  
Sam was completely bewildered. He hadn’t meant to cheat, and he was confused about the definition. He felt like complete shit about both.   
“I’m not sure I have any idea what you’re talking about, Sam’s girlfriend. Who the hell would he cheat on you with?” Brendan laughed awkwardly a little.  
“You are a gigantic fucking scumbag, Brendan” Olivia spat back, words were filled with venom. Sam stepped back and roughly shoved a hand through his hair. He looked at Brendan then back to Olivia.  
“Bren, can we have a minute?”  
“Um, sure. There was a foxy boy who knows our bartender friend whom I would like to flirt with!”  
Brendan sort of bounced away but Sam saw him look behind him and slow to a walk. He looked sort of upset before he turned back toward the bar. Sam looked at his visibly furious girlfriend and felt guilty though he didn’t know why.  
“Liv?”  
“What the fuck, Sam?”  
“Um. I’m sorry?”  
“I know you ‘play for both teams’ or whatever, but why the fuck would you let him molest you like that? I thought you understood we were exclusive.”  
Sam, again, was completely bewildered.   
“We- we are, Liv. What? He’s just my friend.”  
“If you want to be with me you’re going to have to stop touching everyone you know. I saw your face when you looked at him after he kissed you. You are into him. Think about what you really want, Sam, who you’re really dating here. I’m going home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”  
Olivia walked out and Sam stood sort of gaping after her. Brendan turned up, fidgeting.   
“What did I do Sam? I’m sorry. Was I too loud?”  
Sam blinks and turns to look at Brendan.   
Brendan was relatively tame considering - no drugs, no alcohol, no gross flirty boy on his arm - but Sam was livid that Brendan could be the reason he lost the only person who liked him. “No, Brendan. What the fuck? You know this is fucking important to me. You couldn’t reign it in for one fucking minute? Of course not. You’re just a selfish asshole who only cares about himself. I really need you to back the fuck off for a little while. You’re just too much right now.” Brendan looked uncontrollably sad for the briefest of flashes but appeared to steel himself quickly. Sam regretted saying it the second it left his mouth. Brendan’s hands were in fists but his shoulders and face were calm. Brendan told Sam through his teeth:  
“Fine. Whatever, dude. Enjoy your bitch. Don’t you dare, don’t you DARE come back to me fucking whining over her. She’s clearly your priority and when you’ve got that, who needs friends? I guess ‘bros before hoes’ doesn’t apply to us because I’m obviously not important to you like you are to me.”   
Sam was shaking, livid and hurt. He didn’t say anything. Brendan turned around and walked slowly to the bar, not looking back.  
Olivia doesn’t see Brendan again for a few more months. The second time they met it was by accident - B was working at the venue a show and Olivia insisted they go despite Sam’s plea not to.   
Sam caught Brendan’s eye almost immediately after they found their place in the pit. Fuck. Brendan was looking goofy in his tight pants and a gigantic t-shirt, obviously from the headlining band, over his usually tiny band shirt. He had the tell-tale signs of about four(?) days without sleep. Sam almost smiled at him until Brendan’s face darkened and he turned away sharply. Sam was beyond uncomfortable with how Brendan looked. Olivia followed his gaze and immediately scowled. She ignored him most of the night.  
Brendan came over after the show. Sam was more than uncomfortable.  
“How’s married life, kids?”  
“Come on, Brendan. Leave it alone.”  
“What like you left for ‘space?’ So easy, like three years of friendship mean nothing the second something you can stick your dick into comes along.”  
“What the fuck, Brendan?”  
“What the fuck, Sam?”  
Olivia turned around and walked out of the venue. Sam stood up and followed her. It was his turn to not look back.  
The weeks of silence before the show turned into three months. Brendan had tried to get in touch with him more than a few times after that night but Sam ignored it. He was pissed off and hurt …and he’d told Olivia he would stop talking to Brendan so they could stay together. He was always such a pushover in relationships. Despite being angry and hurt and trying to do right by Olivia, he fucking missed Brendan. Sam still worried about him every day.  
Sam came home from class early on a Thursday when Olivia was supposed to be working at the diner close to campus. A professor who was well-known as a hardass had actually let them out early. It was a first. Sam was excited that he had time for a nap before work.   
Olivia had been sleeping at his place more often than not. Sam had taken to ignoring his thoughts and feelings toward Brendan. The space anything but fine and he couldn’t get by otherwise. He told himself to just enjoy what he had with Olivia. Sam walked home from campus, smiling a little. Nap! He never got those. When he got home, he heard weird noises outside the door. Sam opened the door frantically and heard more clearly that Olivia was screaming. He was terrified, thinking the worst. He didn’t even take his shoes off or hang up the keys and he left the door wide open. Sam ran into the bedroom. She certainly wasn’t dying. She was on top of some guy, tattooed arms wrapped around her back. For a second Sam’s heart stops, but not because she was cheating, but because he thought it might be Brendan. His breath back, Sam said “What the fuck Olivia.” They stopped abruptly, clearly not aware of him until then. Sam turned around and walked out. Sam slammed the apartment door behind him. He had to think. His only safe place was the venue at this point. Luckily when he got there the only one around was Lauren and she couldn’t give any less of a shit about Sam. She just ignored him as usual.   
Sam called Olivia and broke up with her over the phone. He lost his tempere. He was so angry that she was such a hypocrite and he was so scared that he’d lost Brendan to this stupid cheating bitch that he got out of control for the first time in a long time. He yelled at her about that, too. Brendan was important to him, he made sacrifices, blah blah blah – essentially “You’re a bitch. Get out of my apartment.” He hung up on her when she started crying, texted “Get your shit out of my apartment.” to her. When he finally hung up on her scream-crying and yelling all at once, he sat for a few more minutes, hands in his hair, just breathing. How could he have chosen his relationship with Olivia over his best friend? He deserved this.


	28. Brendan, Present

“Sam?”   
A little more quietly this time – he doesn’t want Sam to think he’s creepy or angry or anything like that.   
“Hey Sammich? It’s Brendan.”  
Nothing. He doesn’t care if it’s creepy; he’s going in there now. His bad feeling is making him close to vomiting and his head hurts a lot. He hopes that Sam’s silence is because he fell asleep in the bathroom or something. He opens the door and is hit with a wall of steam. Jesus, how long has he been in here? He’s been out of work for an hour and a half now, or so. He steps in and pulls the door closed. Feels safer that way for some reason.  
“Hey Sammy? It’s Brendan. Are you okay?”  
He picks up the towel he finds on the floor. It’s his favorite of Sam’s – soft and huge like a blanket. He pulls back the shower curtain, and Sam is sitting on the bottom the tub bleeding. He’s got a blade in his right hand and is steadily cutting – no, carving – lines horizontally in his left forearm. Sam looks up blearily at Brendan for a second, not even, then goes back to what he was doing. The cuts look too deep from where Brendan’s standing. He has no fucking idea what to do.   
Brendan isn’t proud of the length of time it takes him to move but he’s still in shock. His body and brain just lock up. He gets himself to move, and tries to take the blade out of Sam’s hands. Sam looks up at him and sort of seems to realize he’s there, fighting to hold on to the blade. Brendan is freaking out and sad and angry all at the same time, but mostly he’s just fucking scared. He stops pulling and lets the blade go, watching to make sure Sam wasn’t going to use it while he tried to talk to Sam. He struggles to keep his voice gentle and calm and his hands steady as he holds them out.  
“Sam, please. Please give it to me.”  
Sam looks at him, eyes wide and hands shaking.   
"Come on, Sammy." A whisper, tugging on the blade.  
Brendan thinks that his face is contorted in pain at first but then he sees that really it isn’t – it’s sadness. He pulls back, pushes Sam's hair off of his face. Puts his hand on Sam's shoulder and streatches out the other.   
"Please."   
Sam puts the the bloody razor in Brendan’s outstretched hand. Brendan's crouched down next to the tub and they make eye contact. Sam scrunches his face up, looks away, and puts his face in his hands. His knees are to his chest and they are a disgusting red. The shower doesn’t reach far enough to rinse anything off his thighs. It is a sticky mess and Brendan is starting to lose his composure looking at Sam’s life literally draining out of him. Then Sam puts his face in his hands and starts crying, heaving sobs, blood still running down his arms, making tracks his thighs, swirling into the drain. Brendan is losing his mind but the noise of Sam’s crying shocks him back to reality.   
Brendan stops thinking about what he needs to do and turns on autopilot. He never thought numbing out could be a positive thing. Brendan grabs smaller towel off the rack by the door – he doesn’t give a shit if it gets bloody – and gets into the shower with Sam. He turns the water off and wraps Sam in the blanket-towel he pulls off the floor. Brendan gets on his (filthy) knees in front of his friend and tries to pull Sam’s hands from his face. Sam puts up a fight, now gasping for breath he’s crying so hard that he’s dry heaving. Brendan gets the wrist that Sam cut away from him, at least, and wraps the hand towel around it. He then grabs Sam under his arms and stands him up. He pulls Sam to his chest and wraps the blanket-towel around Sam’s body. Sam leans forward, shaky on his feet and almost as pale as the towel. Brendan holds the ot around Sam and then wraps one of his arms around his friend. Brendan is terrified and desperate and pulls Sam into him further, carefully keeping the bleeding wrist protected.. Sam just lets him, sobbing, not even fighting anymore. This is so not how he imagined seeing Sam naked. Sam grabs at Brendan’s filthy shirt with the wrist that is untouched. They stand in the shower with Sam shaking with sobs on Brendan’s chest.


	29. Brendan, Past

Brendan heard the knock at the door from his spot on the couch but he ignored it. Fuck whoever it was. They needed to go away. He wasn’t sleeping, can’t remember when he ate last, and was not coming out from his couch-den for the next twenty years or until he died. The knocking grew louder and Brendan pulled the blanked over his head. There was a key in the lock, and Brendan got scared that it was his mother, but he still didn’t move. He was happy in his cave. Everyone could fuck off. And if it wasn’t his mother, it was thieves, he had nothing left anyway. Fuck material possessions too!  
Brendan hadn’t been to work in more than a week, has showered only sporadically in the last month (which, believe it or not, is worse than normal), and has just about given up on everything. Sam was gone. The only person who ever really gave a shit, who understood him, was gone. And it was his fault. He didn’t mean to ruin anything - he was just teasing Sam and that Olivia bitch. He knew better than to push it so far all the time. It was a good kiss and he remembered Sam kissing back just a little before he pushed Brendan away. Brendan shut his eyes tightly and curled into himself more. Doesn’t fucking matter now, anyway.  
He stays horizontal when he hears a heavy sigh from the living room doorway. Surely it was his momma, come to check because his uncle hit the 10 day mark they'd agreed on and called her. His uncle and mother had planned it since his ups and downs started and he figured out the pattern eventually. It hadn't been this bad in a long time. He heard footfalls, rustling, and the sound of all of the shit spread around the couch being picked up. He clearly hadn’t been keeping up with that, either. Fuck his mom for cleaning, he thought. It’s not her house or her mess.  
After about twenty minutes, it sounded like the cleaning had stopped. Either his mom had gotten tired or she was done collecting all the shit up off the floor. She came over to the couch. B tried to play dead or sleeping or whatever and kept his eyes closed when the blanket lifted off of his head.  
“…Brendan?” whispered, but clearly Sam.  
He was surprised into opening his eyes. He was never really one to say sorry but he had been sitting around thinking about fucking this up for a long time now. He couldn’t move, the side of his face mushed into the couch. He just looked at Sam, who looked back.  
“B, can you get up and shower so we can talk? I’ll make you some food.”  
Brendan just stared. He couldn’t find his voice.  
“I know; your fridge is always empty. I brought stuff.”  
Brendan was frozen, staring.  
“I’m really sorry Bren.” Sam had gone back to whispering. He knelt down, put his hand on Brendan’s shoulder. “I know that I don’t deserve the chance to talk to you about this or anything else after I was a gigantic dick, but please? Let me try?”  
Brendan stared. Sam grimaced. He wrapped his arms around Brendan in an awkward hug. Sam sighed, pulled back and started to leave. Brendan doesn’t feel like it’s really happening - Sam had given up on him. He must be dreaming or some shit. Maybe not taking his meds made him crazier. What the fuck is going on? He finds his voice.  
“Why are you here.” A period, not a question mark. Sam flinched a little, his back to Brendan, and took a deep breath before answering.  
“I fucked up.” Sam paused again.  
“…….okay.” Brendan didn’t know what that meant. He waits. Sam cleared his throat like he did when he was shy or nervous. It made Brendan exceedingly uncomfortable. They were facing each other, standing in front of the couch. Sam breathed out and then stepped a little closer.  
“I fucked up.” He repeats it. “I need you around, B. I don’t know how I managed to go this long not talking to you. I — God it sounds so selfish that I keep talking about myself. This is about you.”  
“Sam, I’m not sure—”  
“Wait, please. Let me finish. You’re important to me. More important than dating. And music. Fuck, more than fucking breathing. I’m sorry it took her cheating on me for me to realize all this. You deserve better than this for friendship . You must be so tired of my bullshit. Please give me another chance to be a better friend. I’ll make it up to you. I know I don’t deserve it but I’m asking because it’s been like three years and that’s a lot to throw away. I’m really sorry, Brendan. I shouldn’t have left you.”  
“She cheated on you, Sam?”  
“Yeah. And I was only upset because the guy looked like you. That’s what made it click for me that I’m an asshole for fucking this up. I should have seen it a long time ago.”  
Brendan smiles a little. “He must have been hot.”  
Sam smiles back, briefly. “Really, Bren. Please.”  
“Please what? It’s my fault. I’m sorry for kissing you. I don’t know why I did it. I'm sorry for ruining every--”  
Brendan couldn’t get it out .His breath catches. His body betrayed him again; he can’t even tell Sam he loves him. B is getting upset and he doesn’t want that to happen. No crying. He wipes his face with one hand, sliding it to scratch the back of his neck. He looked up at Sam, and the hugged. Sam pulls Brendan to his chest like they show you to do with the “floating seat cushions” on those emergency airplane cards. Sam’s the only warm, floating safety in a sea of ice and fire and fucked up plane parts.  
Sam exhaled at the returned hug like he’d been deflated and dropped his arms around Brendan’s waist. Brendan and Sam just stood in the living room like that for a few minutes, arms wrapped around each other, quiet.  
Brendan loved Sam’s smell. He didn’t even realize Sam had one until now. Brendan closed his eyes, took a breath, then opened them and pulled back. Sam was at arm’s length to Brendan. Brendan just looked at him, remembering his favorite parts.  
Sam said “Come on, go shower and I’ll make you mac & cheese the way you like it - extra hot sauce on top and pseudo-hot-dog on the side” then smiled, more broadly and lop-sided this time. “Then sleep. You clearly haven’t been taking care of yourself. You need sleep.”  
“Please stay. I can’t sleep when you’re too far.”  
Sam sighs, not in exasperation but in guilt and pain for making such a stupid goddamn mistake.  
Brendan made a change after the fight. From then on he kept kissing Sam. He wanted everyone to know that they had a different relationship than everyone else and nothing could come between them. Plus maybe one day Sam would kiss back, if Brendan didn’t push him away again.


	30. Sam, Present

Sam cannot get enough air. He keeps fucking crying on Brendan. He is just so fucking frustrated. This is taking too long, he doesn’t want this kid who doesn’t even want to be his friend to get blood snot and tears all over his clothes, and he’s fucking interrupting what’s supposed to be private to Sam. He pulls away, now just breathing heavily. He’s got to end this. Now. Sam pushes Brendan off of him, tries to step out of the bath tub so he can just go try something faster that works faster. This is stupid. How did he even get here this fast?  
“Stop. Stay here, Sammy.”  
Sam doesn’t want to but he decides that it will get Brendan to leave sooner if he listens. Brendan is holding Sam again. He guides Sam onto the side of the bathtub. Sam is grateful that Brendan wrapped the towel around him; he can’t feel his fingers in his left hand so he doesn’t really know that he could have done it himself. It’s fucking cold and he's naked. Brendan puts the bloody razor in his pocket then opens the bathroom door and leaves.   
Sam looks at his feet. He is starting to get scared about this death thing. It was supposed to happen more quickly and it was supposed to happen when he was alone - now he isn’t sure how to handle it. He can feel the pain start in his arm now. It was strange: last time, and earlier, it was as if he didn’t even feel it. He must not have done it right. Or he had more time to himself and probably didn’t notice.  
He had allowed himself a little hope that this time will be more successful, that this would finally take all of the pain and the bullshit and the self doubt away for good. He was wrong. This doesn’t feel good. It's not freeing him, especially thinking about Brendan in the other room.   
It doesn’t make sense either. Sam knows he needs to not be here anymore and was trying hard to make that happen. He can’t let the guilt of Brendan having to clean up a little blood ruin that. Sam shakes his head, clearing the thoughts for the last time. He reminds himself that he needs to get this over with so Brendan can stop feeling obligated to try and stop him. He pulls the towel off his wrist hoping that if he bleeds more, he’ll pass out. He feels a little lightheaded but not enough to lie down yet.   
Brendan comes back in (shit) with Sam’s meager first aid kit. Sam refuses to look up. He continues staring at his feet. He lets Brendan take his arm and make a tourniquet, then wrap the one roll of gauze around the small towel around his wrist, presumably to hold it on. He still can’t feel his fingers, but he can feel Brendan’s hands gingerly touching his wrist beneath where the cuts are, presumably so he doesn’t hurt Sam more. Sam almost laughs, thinking about the irony that Brendan doesn’t want to hurt him more. Ah, now he’s back on track, thinking about how he can get Brendan to just get out without him feeling guilty so he can just… finish. Maybe he can tell Brendan to call an ambulance…. When Brendan speaks, it startles Sam even though Brendan’s voice is soft next to him.  
“Sam?”  
Sam doesn’t say anything, but he looks up.  
“I’m gonna have to get you to my car. Can you walk down there okay?”  
“Just leave, Brendan. This isn’t your problem or your business. Go home.”  
“I have to take you to the hospital, Sammybear. I can’t just leave this.”  
Sam shakes his head.  
“I have to Sam – it’s not okay. You’re going to bleed out.”  
“Sort of the point.” Sam mumbles.  
“What, love?”  
“I said: That is the point, Brendan.”   
Sam makes eye contact this time. He knows his tone is sharp. Maybe Brendan will get it and just fucking leave. Instead of disgust on Brendan’s face, Sam sees fear and sadness and is confused, briefly. It must be sadness that he has to deal with this shit on his night off, Sam thinks. Sam sees Brendan’s bruised face and almost asks what happened, but he wants Brendan to leave so he doesn’t.  
“Whatever Brendan, fine.” Maybe he'll get a chance to grab his pills on the way out - or another razor out of the drawer.  
He looks back at his feet again. Brendan sighs shakily, then moves Sam’s hair out of his face. He says,  
“Sam?— I,” He can’t seem to figure out what is supposed to come out. Sam almost laughs again when he settles with:   
“I’m going to get you clothes so we can go, Sammy.”  
He hears Brendan go into his room; it worked. Nice. He stands up and pulls open the drawer to grab a new razor. He doesn’t know how he’ll cut his other wrist when he can’t feel his fingers. He knows it has to be now because Brendan seems to think he needs to actually try to stop him instead of leaving. The logistics are actually easier than he thinks. He somehow manages to get the blade in-between his teeth and slides it back and forth into the other wrist with his mouth easily. Is this one is sharper? Maybe it’s that he is more determined than ever. This fucking hurts too, but not as much as being a burden to Brendan does, or knowing that he isn’t worth anything. He can handle this pain to save everyone from the pain he causes all the time.  
He drops it out of his mouth because even if he’s going to die that tastes fucking disgusting. He sits on the edge of the tub for a minute, watching the blood drip onto his bathroom floor. He may as well make a mess – it sort of symbolized his life. He’s starting to finally feel sort of cold now. He moves himself onto the floor and curls up. He will just stay here and maybe Brendan will decide this isn’t worth it and go home.


	31. Brendan, Past

The first time Brendan kissed Sam for real, kissed Sam and meant it, was at a friend’s party. Brendan and Sam had gone together because Brendan peer-pressured Sam into going. He bounced next to Sam on the couch while Sam tried to play the guitar. “Come on. Sammybear? Saaaaammmiiccchhhh! I’ll love you forever. SaaaaammmmmSamSamSamSam…”   
“ALRIGHT. Jesus Christ Brendan. I will go. Just shut the fuck up.” Brendan grinned like the Cheshire Cat. He was quite proud of his ability to wear Sam down. He stayed proud all the way until the point at the party where he saw Sam flirting with a dude.  
They’d gotten to the party and both planned to get seriously drunk for the first time in a long time. Brendan had been wandering back and forth between Sam and the beer pong tournament. He was reigning champion with this crowd. He begged Sam to play in only a slightly slurred and messy manner, he was proud to say, but Sam just smiled and shook his head, cheeks flushed. Sam told Brendan that he was going to find someone normal to talk to. Brendan shrugged and went back to the game for a while. He got bored two games after Sam left and tapped out. He went to get more beer and find Sam. Beer first, obviously. He was seriously less drunk than he believed he should be at 11:45 because he won too many times. He will later be sincerely grateful for this.   
He went to the kitchen but stopped on the way to say hi to people. He really missed this crew. This house was familiar, the usual host to get-togethers between this group of his friends. He remembered being 17 and getting trashed with college kids because he was close with an older group. He also remembered quite a few times where he went home with someone. In fact, this is where he met Kevin. Ugh, gross.   
He pulled a beer out of the fridge and turned around to see Sam leaning toward - Brendan squinted - an attractive guy? Maybe. He can't see that far. He CAN see Sam gesturing wildly. Brendan could only think it was about music – Sam only cared that much about music. Brendan walked a little closer. Sam was oblivious to Brendan’s presence. Brendan could hear him ranting about the Velvet Underground, as if this kid cared. He heard a specific voice respond and felt immediately sick. What are the fucking chances that Kevin is here? What are the chances that Kevin is here and talking to Sam? He’d heard Kevin moved to Austin a year ago. Like, Really? Who the fuck thought that he deserved this kind of luck? Did he do something wrong (aside from that one incident with the ----- and he'd had so much other shit go wrong he'd paid enough for that.)? His stomach dropped and he started to find it hard to breathe. He hadn’t seen Kevin since that night at the venue when Kevin had left the nasty messages. Kevin had called a few times since then, left drunk voicemails. Sometimes Brendan would listen and others he would delete. This was usually connected to the precursory text messages.   
Sam and Kevin were laughing now, with Brendan standing five feet away. It seems like his reaction to stress is to freeze up and do nothing. Great for survival. Clearly if he was in the wild he would be the first eaten or hit by a car, like a deer. He shook it off and stepped closer. Sam looked up now that Brendan was closer and stopped mid-sentence.  
“BREN look I made friends with someone who knows you! He said you guys were close.”  
Brendan shuddered and felt even more sick.  
“Yeah, I know him Sam. Can you come here for a minute?”  
“But why, Brenny? Sam and I were having such an interesting conversation about music. He feels the same way that we do about the Underground.”   
Kevin smiled in the creepiest way possible at Brendan. Brendan looked at Sam and held out his hand.   
“Please?”   
This word was like his emergency code for help. He rarely said it unless things were out of control. Kevin wasn’t with him or even friends with him long enough to know that. Sam was a little drunk, though. He seemed to have forgotten this.  
“Bren why are you being weird? You should be more drunk. Drunk is excellent. We should do this all the time. God damn I love the Underground.” He smiled one of his rare smiles where he looked genuinely happy and slung an arm around Kevin. Brendan met Kevin’s eye. Kevin clearly was pleased with his impact on Sam, his face in a disgustingly arrogant smirk. Brendan dropped his hand, walked away. He didn’t trust himself to say anything, He went outside in the back to the patio that this house had outside. He sat down in an ancient lawn chair and looked at the stars. He frowns, squinting to see the constellations. The suburbs weren’t muc better than the city for star gazing. He thinks again about his luck.What the fuck did he do that he deserved Kevin and Sam getting together? That shit’s low, fates/gods/whomever makes the rules.  
He sat outside for at least an hour without drinking or socializing at all. Nobody noticed he had disappeared, apparently, because nobody went to look for him. He could see Kevin through the sliding glass doors from his lawn spot but not Sam. It was probably better this way. He saw Kevin using his charming smile and reaching to touch who he assumed was Sam on occasion. When Sam leaned forward and put his face on Kevin’s shoulder, laughing and Kevin pulled his face up to kiss it, Brendan broke.   
He walked inside and stood behind Kevin. He said “Sam?” Sam looked up and belatedly stepped forward, next to Kevin. “Sammy, I really need to go home.”  
“Why Bren? Maybe I could stay here and take a taxi.”  
“You promised you’d leave if I asked, remember?” It had actually been Sam that said that to Brendan but Brendan took the chance that Sam was drunk enough to forget that.  
“Whatever B, Fine. You owe me though, dude. And you—” Sam stopped. He had seen B's face and understood this time. Sam frowned at Brendan and oriented himself back to Kevin.   
“Hi.”   
“Hi,”   
Brendan rolled his eyes and Kevin smiled his wicked smile. Brendan knew it well – it was the one he used right before he did something to fuck Brendan over. Sam smiled brightly.   
“We should talk more. I like you.” Sam’s back was to Brendan. “I’m sorry we have to go, Kevin.”   
Sam looked back at Brendan and gave him a look that was both decidedly drunk and borderline furiously angry. Brendan cringed.  
“I really liked talking to you.”   
Sam fucking smiled at that douche bag again. Brendan only got to see him smile when he EARNED it.   
Kevin caught Brendan’s eye with his malicious face and smiled wider. He leaned down and pulled Sam in for a kiss. Brendan felt sick. Fucking Kevin. Brendan hated him. Hated him SO much. Brendan looked at his shoes. Kevin and Sam broke apart and Sam smiled again.   
“Here’s my number, Sam.” Brendan watched with an icy glare as Kevin slipped it into Sam’s front pocket. “Let’s talk VU and Bowie more.”   
Kevin used his charming smile on Sam and turned to Brendan.   
“See you soon, buddy,” said Kevin, who then punched Brendan's arm "playfully."   
Brendan rolled his eyes and pushed past Kevin. He took Sam by the hand out to the car. Sam was confused and beyond annoyed at Brendan for taking him away from the party and “kisses," apparently, as he kept repeating this on the way to Brendan’s house. It seemed like Sam got increasingly drunker as they drove rather than less drunk. Brendan didn’t like it.   
Sam laughed up the stairs and told Brendan that is was his turn to be saved, like he saved Brendan the first time. Brendan closed his eyes as he held his friend up and dug out his keys. “You have no idea,” he thought. Once inside, they toed off their shoes and went to the kitchen. Brendan set about making tea, his back to Sam. Sam leaned against the counter and watched him.   
“What’s the real reason we left?”  
“I told you, I felt sick.”  
“You look more than—”  
Sam swayed on the counter a little and leaned back on the cabinets.   
“—more than fine to me.”  
“I know but you’re also drunk, Sammy. Why don’t you just have some tea and go to bed?”  
“I think you were jealoussssss of Kevin.” Sam’s smile was huge and more than a little smug. “You were jealous a cute boy liked me and not you. Well get over it because sometimes boys think gross little trolls are cute too." Brendan'd had his back to Sam so he slowly turned around and made eye contact. Fuck it, Sam's drunk anyway.  
"Sam, I wasn't jealous that Kevin chose you. I was jealous that you chose Kevin."  
"So why don't you fucking kiss me then? "  
Brendan almost dropped the full tea pot. Maybe he hadn't seen Sam this drunk, or Sam was feeling ballsy, or Sam was actually some sort of alien body-snatcher, OR Brendan was dreaming. He was never this bold and rarely this straight-forward about anything. Brendan put the kettle on the stove and turned it on, then turned around to Sam.   
“Can I still ask you for a kiss?” Brendan didn’t want to pass this up if he had the chance. Fucking Kevin shouldn’t be with Sam - Sam wasn’t his.  
“Yup. Obvvvviouslyyyy.” Sam did his favorite Alan Rickman/Snape imitation, using his horrendous British accent. Brendan laughed, pulling cups out of the cabinet. He set them down, teabags in place, and turned to face Sam again. He paused, growing serious. Sam made eye contact.  
“Sammy, can I kiss you?” Brendan might be an idiot but he was sober and knew this could be a big deal. Sam closed his eyes, still leaning on the cabinets.  
"Why, Mister Brendan, what are your intentions? You act as if I have no moral sensibilities!" Sam used his falsetto voice, here. Brendan rolled his eyes but then returned his intense gaze back to Sam.   
"You don't, sir."  
"Kiss me then, you fool!" Sam giggled at himself, but held his hands out.  
Brendan made it across the room as if he apparated. He was much more eager than he thought originally and suddenly fucking scared to death. He really shouldn’t be doing this – he can’t fuck things up with Sam and what if Sam is drunker than he seems? Does this fuck up whether or not he consents? He wants Sam to be happy. Kevin clearly doesn’t care… but Kevin shouldn’t be kissing his Sammy anyway! Especially when he didn’t get to. Kevin is such a giant fuck.  
Sam suddenly looked more sober, eyes open and bright. Sam smiled at Brendan. B’s confidence went up a fraction and he wrapped Sam in his arms. Sam stiffened initially and Brendan panicked, like he wasn’t supposed to do this, like Sam was kidding, or he read this wrong and Sam didn’t want it. Then Sam pulls his arms up around Brendan’s waist to pull him closer and Brendan lets out the breath he didn’t know he was holding. Brendan made eye contact with Sam – his eyes looked so green today.   
Sam was still tilting slightly sideways and Brendan was still scared. Sam looked only happy and drunk, not scared at all. Brendan was looking at Sam’s mouth. It’s perfect. Brendan could see Sam’s perfectly straight teeth and a little of Sam’s pink tongue as Sam looked up, lips parted. Brendan thought about that perfect mouth and somehow got the picture of Kevin kissing Sam in his mind. Kevin was still lingering on Sam’s lips. Not okay. This was too much. Brendan slid his left hand up from Sam’s shoulder into his hair at the nape of his neck. He slid the other up too, running his thumb along the stubble on Sam’s jaw. Sam closed his eyes and leaned into it a little. Brendan took this as interest on Sam’s part. Thank God. Brendan took a breath and kissed him.   
Time stopped for a minute and all Brendan could think was “ohgod.” He pulled back a fraction to see Sam’s face and make sure that everything was okay. He might have second thoughts. Sam didn’t open his eyes but Brendan felt Sam’s hands clench in the sides of his shirt by his hips and trying to get even closer, almost desperate. Brendan leaned forward and tried again, just as gentle. He kissed Sam lightly on the corner of his mouth, his cheek, his forehead, his jawline before he made it back to Sam’s lips. He slid his tongue across Sam’s bottom lip and pushed the kiss a little deeper. Sam pulled harder on Brendan’s shirt and was leaning as far forward as he could. When Brendan pulled away, Sam’s mouth followed and he made a short, low sound of disappointment.   
Brendan smiled and Sam looked up at him. B slid his thumb along Sam’s jaw again, back to his hair. The other hand steadied them, holding onto the counter. Sam surged up to meet Brendan’s mouth and kissed him hard. Brendan slid sideways, along Sam’s fantastic mouth, cheek, neck. He kissed slow trails down to Sam’s collarbone, then used lips tongue and teeth on his way back up. One of Sam’s hands slid from where it was holding Brendan’s shirt tightly, up to Brendan’s hair. Sam’s short nails scratched through the shorter hair at the back of Brendan’s neck like he was trying to hold on there instead. Sam’s breathing hitched and he tilted his head to let Brendan have better access. As Brendan licked a line up Sam’s neck to his ear and worried it with his teeth, Sam leaned into Brendan’s mouth and made possibly the best sound B ever heard. Sam unclenched one fist and slid his hand up into Brendan’s hair. Sam turned his head to catch Brendan’s mouth and Brendan got lost in it, in Sam. Sam explored Brendan, too – he used his teeth to worry small places along Brendan’s neck and shoulders, ears. He pulled on Brendan’s bottom lip with his teeth and made eye contact with Brendan. Those green eyes with their huge pupils full of want were too intense and he had to re-close his own to kiss Sam again. He slid his hands everywhere he could reach, exploring all of the parts of Sam he normally hadn’t been able to get to. Brendan had kissed a lot of people – he was a little bit of a slut, sometimes, he had to admit – but none of them were like Sam. Sam was the same about kissing that he was with everything else: a subtle shyness that quickly turned into excitement and passion and intensity. Brendan couldn’t breathe and he finally had to pull away to catch his breath. Sam blinked his eyes open and locked eyes with Brendan. He smiled, the shy, quiet smile that Brendan liked to believe was his own. Then Sam leaned forward and vomited on Brendan’s nice new shoes.   
Brendan had Sam sleep at his apartment after he cleaned them both up. He took Sam’s shoes off, changed his clothes (the ones with vomit) and tucked him into the bed. Brendan “slept” on his couch. Brendan was awake and reading one of Sam’s books when Sam got up in the morning. Sam walked into the living room, rubbing his face with one hand that slid up into his messy morning hair. He looked like shit and Brendan couldn’t stop thinking about kissing him again. “What the fuck happened? I feel awful.” Brendan tells him a few things from the party but leaves out what happened when they got home.


	32. Brendan, Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the hiatus - no internet!

Brendan and Sam took exactly one (1) plane trip together. Brendan was itching to see NYC again and Sam had never been. He paid for Sam to go for Sam’s birthday. The night they were scheduled to board the plane, Sam and Brendan were on the way to the airport in Sam’s car. Brendan saw Sam’s hands on the steering wheel, knuckles white.   
“Dude, what’s up? You look like you’re trying to strangle the car.”  
Sam noticeably loosens his grip.  
“Nothing. I’m fine.”  
“Ha, whatever Sam.”  
Brendan directed Sam to the “cheap” lot by the airport. Sam thought taxis were stupid and insisted that it would be cheaper to park off-site. Brendan thought how adamant Sam was about small things like this was over the top, but he just went with it because it was funny and sort of cute.   
Brendan had been all over the country as a kid. His dad was a senator and love getting in as much of the country as he could – it allowed him to brag to his constituents and ‘wow’ them. Brendan thought this was fucking stupid as young as when he was 9 or 10, but his dad was paying for the trips. Now that he was older, his hair was long, and he had a penchant for tattoos, Brendan’s dad just paid him to stay out of the way. He didn’t give a fuck, honestly. It wasn’t like he was ever close to the man who calls himself Brendan’s father. Parents could be self-absorbed pieces of shit. Whatever.  
Sam had known about Brendan’s dad almost right away. A few months after they’d med, Sam and Brendan were still getting to know each other and they’d discussed how hard Sam had it to pay his rent and tuition. Sam knew that he and the senator had the same last names but he didn’t make the connection until that conversation. Brendan felt guilty that he had a lot of money and Sam had to work so hard to get by. He felt like it was a good idea to explain himself so Sam didn’t think he was a liar on top of being an asshole. It was one of the most uncomfortable conversations Brendan had ever had. For some reason he was scared Sam would judge him or stop being his friend. It was absurd and Sam didn’t give a shit, but Brendan could be really insecure sometimes.  
Occasionally, Sam will make a joke about Brendan’s wealth but other than that Sam doesn’t have any resentment toward B. Sam insists that he pay for most things himself but Brendan negotiated to be allowed gifts for appropriate holidays. So, Brendan was taking Sam on a baller trip for his birthday. Before he met Brendan, Sam hadn’t been able to celebrate a birthday since his mother died. It made Brendan feel sort of sick to his stomach. This kid deserved birthday parties with ponies and shit – all-out awesome little kid parties – and he got nothing instead. Brendan wanted to do something awesome and memorable so that Sam could say he had a good birthday. Brendan’s favorite place to visit was NYC; the city had a different kind of magic than all of the others he’d been to. He wanted Sam to feel that magic, too.  
They got out of the car and pulled the two suitcases from the trunk of the car. A van pulled up to their car to shuttle them to the airport from the lot.   
“Shut up, B. It’s not the same.”  
Brendan laughed.   
“I didn’t even look at you Sam, never mind say anything.”  
“Yeah but I could fucking hear you thinking it from here.”  
The bags were secured on the racks of the van and the boys sat down. Brendan was as close as he usually was to Sam, basically on his lap. Before the lights of the van went out as the elderly driver closed the door, Sam caught her face in the rear-view mirror. He explained and mimicked the look to Brendan and they made sure to be as gross and lovey as possible when leaving. Brendan winked at her after he tipped her and they made their way into the airport. They both thought it was hilarious.   
Sam’s anxiety seemed to come back with full force as they stepped into the airport. Sam stopped smiling almost immediately, gripped his bag as tight as the steering wheel, and clenched his other fist. Brendan uncurled Sam’s fist and wove his fingers through Sam’s. They made eye contact and Brendan made sure to smile and show all his teeth to Sam in an attempt to be reassuring. Sam shook off Brendan’s hand but kept his fist loose; his other hand still gripped his bag like it had offended him and needed to die.  
Sam let Brendan get their boarding tickets from the lady behind the desk and waited off to the side. Brendan saw Sam fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie in his periphery. Brendan explained to the woman at the counter, “Marjorie” her name-tag said, that Sam’s dad had died (not a lie) and Sam was having a really hard time at the airport (also not a lie). Brendan used his charming smile with the ticket clerk and asked her if there was anything she could do to make it easier for his friend. He then pointed and waved to Sam who frowned deeply and raised his hand briefly. Brendan knew he could count on Sam to have a depressing response to his enthusiasm and it sold Marjorie on upgrading them for super cheap. She handed the tickets to Brendan – first class. Sweet. Brendan hugged her across the counter and kissed her cheek. The security guard frowned and started to make his way over as Marjorie blushed and waved at Brendan and Sam.   
“Sorry about your dad!” she called from the counter.  
“What did you do, asshole?” Sam’s frown deepened even though it didn’t seem possible.  
“What do you mean? Let’s go.”   
Brendan threw his arm around Sam’s shoulder and smiled back at Marjorie. He made a sad face and waved over his shoulder where Sam couldn’t see him.   
“Dude, don’t be a dick. What did you do?”  
“Ooh, look! A Newsrack! Let’s go!”  
“No way. I don’t want to watch you wank in the airport because you found the AP magazine. I’m also not letting this go. What did you do?”  
Brendan huffed a sigh, like his life was beyond difficult.  
“I got us an upgrade for first class by telling her the truth.”  
“The truth, Bren? Really?”  
“Yep. I told her your dad died and you were really upset to be in the airport.”  
“Brendan! That’s so shitty!”  
“Whatever man, I got us an upgrade for like $50 total. You will complain until you see the seats we got.” Brendan grinned again and dragged Sam into the convenience store.


	33. Sam, Past

He rationalized his fear in his head as he stood next to Brendan to board the plane. Sam was not freaking out. He wasn’t. Seriously. He just didn’t like the concept of being thirty fucking thousand feet in the air. Bad things can happen. He doesn’t even know how the fucking thing works. How could he trust it if he doesn’t understand? This giant heavy metal bird-like thing spins some metal fans and carries a fuckton of people at ridiculous speeds? Nope. Doesn’t make sense.  
He imagined their fiery, fiery death while he waited in line. Brendan made him go FIRST on to the plane. Brendan was such a dickface sometimes. He’d much rather be at the part of the plane where he had some more time to prep himself for being thirty thousand – THIRTY THOUSAND – feet above the ground. Brendan looked down at him and smiled with that ridiculous enthusiasm again. Didn’t he know how much Sam hated him for making him go first? Or that this was their last half hour alive? Sam was sure the plane would crash and kill everyone. That or it would be something like that TV show where the plane crashes on some magic island everyone kills everyone else. He thinks the former is probably preferable. Sam doesn’t like polar bears, six seasons of bullshit, or Matthew Fox.  
The first class seats were really nice. Even Sam’s mood didn’t keep him from admitting it. He was sitting next to Brendan who was talking nonstop about some band he’d just read about and how he got to “see them play before they made it big!” Sam pulled the laminated card that details emergency procedures out of the seat pocket even though he knew reading it would make his mood (because it definitely wasn’t fear, no) worse. He was starting to read it when the flight attendant came over with drink options. Alcohol would probably help, Sam decided. He tuned Brendan’s rant out and resolved that everything would be fine if he just got shit faced. Brendan clearly approved because he shut up about the magazine and band and participated in obtaining drinks for Sam. Brendan declined what Sam offered because he said he got sick drinking and flying. Sam thought this was a crazy idea and managed to finish five of those tiny bottles of vodka before the plane started to move. They were free in first class!   
Sam was small and he didn’t drink often, but when he did he was a champion at throwing them back. Brendan looked a little more concerned with every tiny bottle that disappeared but didn’t say anything, which Sam appreciated. He was surprised to discover he was suddenly drunk and leaned over into his friend. Sam found that he was annoyed by the armrest between them and struggled to be comfortable on Brendan’s arm with the stupid metal thing between them. Brendan laughed and pushed him aside to move it up so he could put his arm around Sam while they taxied onto the runway. Sam was pleased to say he no longer gave a shit that the plane was moving. He hadn’t noticed when everyone came around to check that they were sitting right or talk about seat belts because Brendan got three more bottles out of the flight attendant by using his charming smile. That fucker could charm the panties off of a nun.   
“I’m glad you got first class so I could get drunk. I don’t give a shit anymore!”  
The pilot was saying something over the speaker, but Sam was focused on telling Brendan about how he was going to take pictures of the city, loudly. Sam was warm and with Brendan on vacation for the first time ever and he was happy. Then suddenly they were going really fast. He latched onto Brendan’s arm with a vice-like grip similar to the one he was killing the steering wheel with earlier.   
“Oh, God. We’re going to die, B. Death. Really fast fiery death.” Brendan’s big sparkly blue eyes looked at Sam, who was sort of happy that Brendan’s eyes were pretty. At least he gets to look at them before they crashed and died and were charred into so many pieces that nobody would be able to identify their bodies. He made sure that he did not say this out loud.  
“Shh, Sam. No we’re not.” Brendan laughs at Sam but tightens his grip on Sam’s shoulder.   
The plane is still picking up speed and when it lifts off the ground Sam has his face in Brendan’s shoulder and his legs thrown over Brendan’s. It’s an awkward fit but Sam can’t help himself. Who in the fuck decided these giant death-traps were a good idea?


	34. Brendan, Past

Brendan smiled at Sam even though it fucking hurt to have him wrapped around his bicep. He patted Sam’s head and murmured in his ear.  
“Alright, Sammy. You’re alright. Just wait until we’re in the air and it will be alright. This is just the takeoff.”  
Sam just held tighter. The plane left the runway, and started climbing. Sam eventually pulled back and sat in his own seat, breathing.   
“See? We’re fine.”  
“Brendan.”  
“Yes, dearest darling love?”  
“…shut up.”  
Brendan grinned. He was going to love this trip.   
They landed at JFK a few hours later. Sam only woke up for the bump when the plane landed and blearly looked at Brendan. A few emotions passed over his face – sheer terror, confusion, anxiety – until he finally realized that they’d landed and settled on relieved. The plan was to head to the hotel and shower before they went to dinner at this place that Brendan was really excited to share with Sam. Then they’d get drinks at some weird bars and call it a night. Museums for Sam the next day.   
Dinner was uneventful but they both liked the place. Drinks were another story. Sam’s undying love for shoes, particularly tennis shoes, came out that night. When it came to drinking, Sam wasn’t completely abstinent, he told Brendan that he liked being in control of his body and thoughts, especially when Brendan wasn’t in control of himself. Hence the relative safety of the airplane and their night out in the city - that night, they could walk home after. Sam was a lot more open about conversation topics than usual when he was eight drinks and a shot in. Brendan had stopped drinking about two beers in when he realized that Sam was drinking this heavily. He wanted to remember most parts of the night and all of the conversations.   
Sam recounted their first meeting, complete with his nickname of “Lanky-tattoo-shoes” or “LTS.” Sam also let it slip that he found Brendan attractive. Brendan kept that last part to himself but gave Sam a ton of shit about the rest. ‘LTS? Really? You couldn’t think of something better like “incredible hunky musician from the venue?” Sam talked about a lot of other things with B that night.   
Sam told Brendan about his mom dying, Liam’s childhood and his undying love for a good shoe. Sam didn’t have a lot of money when he first got out on his own because he was only sixteen. He’d had a series of shit jobs and since he was emancipated he couldn’t get help from many places. Sam told Brendan that the second thing he really wanted and saved up for after he started working, after his guitar and record collection, was a pair of orange Chuck Taylor’s that had come across the thrift store donation bin. He kept them in his closet with all of his other pairs of shoes. He’s had the same pair of shoes, and even wears them occasionally, for almost a third of his life. Brendan pried some more, tried to get the details about Sam’s sex life out of him but Sam had stated to sober up. Sam wouldn’t tell Brendan his “number,” though he said the number of shoes he had was exponentially higher than his sex number. Brendan laughed but tried to assess how many that could be – 3? 5? He was jealous as hell. They went to bed that night in their King at the hotel curled up into each other, Brendan holding on tightly.


	35. Brendan, Present

Brendan flips his phone open and dials 911. He doesn’t know how he’s able to do this now, how he’s able to remember the address or tell the lady what’s happening. He feels like he’s barely part of his body and the situation – like he’s watching from somewhere else. That haunted angry look on Sam’s face just did him in. Maybe he couldn’t function and be emotionally involved; like, work now, cry later. Even the pain he felt on the walk here has dulled, he thinks. Must be because he’s so pumped full of adrenaline. He’s never been so fucking terrified, not in any of the car accidents he’s been in, not breaking his leg in the fifth grade, not even seeing that kid die in the pit of a giant concert. He had no idea how bad his friend was doing. Should he have? What did he miss? Was Sam just that good at hiding? He grabs clothes out of the pile he thinks is Sam’s “clean” pile (it smells okay) and makes sure they’re clothes Sam won’t mind losing. He comes back to the bathroom. Sam is in a ball on the floor, with more blood than Brendan’s ever seen. Brendan feels sick with guilt – he can see that the drawer is open and that there are at least five more blades in there. Oh God. There were more razors in the drawer. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. He kneels down and tries to shake Sam.  
“Sam.” Sam’s eyes flutter and he curls into himself more.   
“Fuck off.” Almost a whisper.  
“Sam come on, please get up.” Brendan sounds desperate, now.  
Nothing. Brendan feels like he can’t get enough air suddenly, heart pounding. He’s back in his body, now, and wishes he could go back to not being here. Brendan is dangerously close to crying or vomiting or both. He has a different view of Sam’s arm the way it’s lying next to Sam, in the blood, and he can see that the other is cut now too. The cuts range from superficial to so deep Brendan doesn’t know how Sam managed it. He wraps a second towel around both of Sam’s wrists. He tries really hard to hold them together and put pressure on it like they teach you in boy scouts.   
Brendan stands over Sam and isn’t sure if he can pick his friend up (even if he is little) after getting his ass handed to him on the way here. He will try anyway, ribs and internal bleeding be damned. Brendan slides his arm under Sam’s knees and wraps another arm around Sam’s back and under his right arm. Sam doesn’t struggle but that might be because he is unconscious. Brendan has no idea. He pulls back again, thinking about how wants Sam’s left arm – the one with the deepest cuts. It needs to be facing out so that he doesn’t do more damage than is necessary to get Sam downstairs. He ends up putting this arm across Sam’s chest toward his own so it’s more protected.  
Brendan has carried Sam like this before, once when Sam passed out at a show that he shouldn’t have gone to because he was fucking sick and even Brendan told him to stay home, and once when he was teasing his friend about being Tarzan and Jane. Sam was easier to carry the other times, he thinks, because he was alive. He hopes the adrenalin will at least get Sam downstairs. Brendan knows Sam can’t afford the ambulance ride… oh, God if he even makes it. The ambulance feels like it’s taking too long to get there. Brendan will just pay for it – fuck what Sam says. If he’s alive he owes Brendan and if he’s dead—  
Even ten minutes is an eternity to wait for this ambulance to get here. He can’t just stand here and wait while his best fucking friend dies. Brendan succeeds in picking Sam up still wrapped in a towel. He puts Sam’s clothes with Sam in his arms and tries really hard to go quickly. He holds Sam moving as fast as possible out to the living room. He manages, somehow, to reach one arm up to grab the keys off of Sam’s hook by the door. It must be that strength that like, moms get when they need to lift a van off their kid. Thank Christ Sam at least puts his keys in the same place every day. He opens the door with the same hand and kicks it closed behind him. It locks automatically so Sam’s shit is safe… if he even needs it later. Stop thinking like that, B. Just get Sam downstairs. Brendan bends slightly and calls the elevator with his elbow on the button. There’s a table next to the two possible elevators that is home to a hideous flower arrangement. Brendan pushes this off with Sam in his arms and rests Sam’s body on it. Brendan is shaking, and he is in a ridiculous amount of pain. The elevator bings open. Brendan is grateful that it is empty and hopes that it will get him down to the lobby quickly. He just didn’t think he could handle sixteen flights of stairs with his best friend in his arms and his ribs broken.   
It is potentially the most excruciating elevator ride ever. He switches from foot to foot trying to stand in a way that he hurts less, eventually leaning Sam against the wall. The towel wrapped around Sam’s torso got blood on the mirrored walls of the elevator. Brendan looked at their reflection for a minute as they went down. He looks haggard disgusting and exhausted and Sam looks… Sam looks dead. The elevator opens once on the seventh floor but nobody is there. What the fuck. Brendan moves forward again and pushes the door close button, cursing the person who called the elevator. He gets to the lobby of the apartment building, finally. He was supposed to stay on the phone with that lady from 911 dispatch but he had to get Sam out of there. The EMT’s are fighting with the disgruntled landlord. Brendan hoped the blood his friend dripped on the floor was hard to clean. The EMT’s push past and take Sam from him. He sort of stands there as they check Sam’s breathing, etc. He follows them to the ambulance like a zombie. No idea what to do, and no idea how they get to the hospital. He can’t remember the drive except not being able to breathe and thinking about how the siren sounds different inside than it does outside.   
There’s a rush of staff at the doors of the hospital all at once, like ducks to bread. Sam disappears in the crowd on a gurney. Brendan manages to catch sight of him before he disappears, thinking “Oh, Jesus. I might never see him alive again.” He wishes he hadn’t seen it - the image will stay with him the rest of his life. Sam’s skin is the same color as the stark-white walls, almost as white as the towel wrapped around him. The deep maroon towel around his wrists seems to be almost black against the pale skin.


	36. Sam, Past

Sam and Brendan took on the Met and the AMNH, so Brendan could see the dinosaurs. They had a blast and had a great dinner. After showering at the hotel and Brendan giving Sam a primp session, they ventured to the bars again.  
Sam was determined have a good time. He had recently decided he liked to drink and this enjoyment has only increased over time. Drinking kept his mind off of the bullshit. He played pool, made conversation he wouldn’t have otherwise, and made a scientific observation of the garbage on the TVs in the bar (sports and commercials, that’s it). Most importantly, however, it dulled the pain for a while. He had made up this whole other personality for the bar he went to on 39th so he could escape. He was never a drinker, never outgoing, but what the fuck, right? Sam was now Samuel (he was a good pretender but a bad liar) who did whatever the fuck he wanted. Completely reckless. What could he possibly have left to lose? May as well be reckless because if he died accidentally or could use some – any – way to feel just a little less fucking miserable he would, dammit. He might have also been driving faster, looking up the lethality of the medications he was taking, investigating local animal adoption agencies, and so on just in case he didn’t feel bound by that stupid fucking promise anymore.   
So, that night, Samuel made some friends. Samuel may have even kissed a boy toward the end of the night. Whatever. Brendan was chatting someone else up (as usual) anyway. Sam needed this. He needed to not dwell on Brendan. They were amazing friends and had a blast together, but that was it. It was the second of their two nights in the city and they were headed back in the morning. Sam politely declined the sex the kisser had promised, hoping to get back to the hotel with Brendan and have one of their heart-to-hearts, snuggle up with his friend and go to sleep. This did not work out how he'd wanted. Sam turned around after about 20 minutes, and found that he'd lost Brendan. He tried calling and texting, looked everywhere at the venue, and then tried the hotel. He knew he couldn't report someone missing until they'd been gone for a certain amount of time. Maybe Brendan had gotten lost?   
Sam sat on the hotel bed, panicking a little. He tried watching tv, packing their shit, showering again, calling repeatedly. Nothing calmed him down. Brendan strolls into the hotel room, looking tired but otherwise just fucking fine, a little after five in the morning. Sam was lying face up on the bed, spread-eagle, lights on. That's it. He sits up, really slowly.  
"What happened to your phone."  
"What?" Brendan looks up. "Oh the battery died."   
"Okay." Sam turned the light next to the bed off. "The alarm is set for 7. Our flight is at 10. Goodnight."  
"What is the problem, Sam?"  
"What problem?"  
"Shut up. What's. The. Problem."  
"I couldn't find you. It was our last night here. Where did you go?"  
Brendan turns the light back on. He's obviously livid - his face is red and he's shaking.  
"Are you fucking serious? You were sucking some guy's face off and ignoring me so I made some friends of my own. Fuck you - what right to you have to argue about this?"  
Sam's just snapped. "You do this shit all the time Brendan. You only ever think about yourself. I was trying to have a good time. It's been a long time since I kissed someone and I OBVIOUSLY came to look for you instead of sleeping with him. Why? Because I think about someone OTHER THAN MYSELF."   
"Yeah Sammy, this trip was all about me."  
"Sure seems like it."   
"Whatever. Sorry for leaving and for being selfish. You're right; you're always right. Good night."  
"Oh fuck you, Brendan."  
Brendan sleeps on the other bed that night. The morning is quiet, they just get their stuff together and leave. At the airport, and on the way, Brendan grabs Sam's hand. They may have fought but their friendship is supposed to mean more than that. Sam leans into Brendan, hoping to god that he can keep being strong with the way his life is going.


	37. Brendan, Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is after their trip to the City.

Brendan is standing in the doorway to the kitchen, holding two bottles of shitty beer. Both boys are wearing Brendan’s old sweatpants and ratty t-shirts on a completely average Wednesday night. It is, however ridiculous given the context, when Brendan realizes that he’s never going to love anyone in the same way or as much as he loves Sam, here, now.   
Never.   
Brendan is on his way back from grabbing beers from his fridge – the only thing in it – for the two of them when he just has to stop and look at Sammy. Sam is sitting on Brendan’s couch, lazily picking out chords while he stares ahead at the (muted) TV. Brendan can’t see what’s on the television from where he stands, leaning against the frame, only the couch and Sam who is clearly spacing out. Sam doesn’t look up; he’s still playing something that sounds like City and Colour.   
Brendan closes his eyes, really clearing those thoughts this time, then opens them and takes advantage of Sam’s deep thought. He catalogues the casual way Sam sits and occupies his couch. Sam’s neglected hair sweeps in front of his eyes, which look darker, more brown today; he thinks absently that maybe Sam’s eye color changes with Sam’s mood, the brightest of greens to indicate happiness down the spectrum to brown, which is sad or discontent. They sometimes flash gray or blue-green when he’s pissed. Sam’s hair rarely gets the way it is right now but Brendan loves it. Sam’s fringe is almost to the point where it will hide the freckles on Sam’s nose, but not quite. It’s perfect. Sam’s borrowed sweatpants from Brendan’s closet are tighter on him than they are on Brendan, so make his thighs look even sexier than usual, providing a frame for the muscles beneath. His t-shirt, also borrowed, is a bit clingier than Brendan is used to seeing. He’s surprised Sam allowed it, despite the fact that they had an impromptu sleepover last night. Sam got drunk after work and found his way to Brendan’s at three in the morning soaking wet and looking miserable. This, right here, with Sam looking all disheveled and sleepy and a little hung over, is the point where Brendan realizes that whether Sam is at his worst or at his best, he just loves this kid. Not in the “I love pizza!” or “I love the sleeping!” sense but more in the “I don’t think I could live without you around” kind of love. It is such an overwhelming feeling that he almost has to sit down.   
It’s an interesting sensation for Brendan, having something in his mind just click into place. It clicks, like a light bulb going on, or whatever other cliché you can think of – puzzle pieces? Whatever. It clicks. It clicks again immediately after that his relationship with Sam is unstable at the moment, and then he’s suddenly praying to “God,” even though he has no faith, that Sam’s thoughts aren’t dark. Brendan worries about it a lot, that Sam is brooding or whatever. Sam's had a lot going on lately that he hasn't been talking about.   
It’s obviously been a little too long of just standing, staring, and Sam looks up.  
“Dude, what are you doing? Stop staring at me. You’re being creepy.”  
Brendan grins like he was doing it on purpose. “You spaced out, weirdo. I was wondering how long you’d take to notice. The answer is ‘forever.’ I was getting bored.”  
Sam rolls his eyes. “You get me one too?”  
Brendan holds up the two bottles in his left hand, grateful that his quick-thinking cover-up explained their temperature and the level of condensation on the bottles. Practice makes perfect. He pushes himself up off the frame with his shoulder and makes his way to the couch. The time he took standing and thinking about the alphabet wasn’t quite long enough to slow his heart but his breathing was steady again. At least the pictures were gone. He hoped Sam wouldn’t notice his unease or his heartbeat. Brendan pushed the thin glass-topped table closer to the couch and puts the sweaty beer on the glass. He took the guitar out of Sam’s hands (“Hey!”), propping it against the wall next to the couch. Sam watches him questioningly. Brendan returns, not explaining. He pushes both of Sam’s legs up and out flat along the cushions. Sam’s raising his eyebrow at Brendan but he goes along with it. In the next moment Brendan is throwing himself down, landing on top of Sam (“Oof! Dude, you might be a skinny fuck but you are not light!!”), settling between Sam’s legs, head on his chest, arms around Sam’s middle. Sam weaves a hand through Brendan’s hair and absently plays with it, the other hand sliding forward to move gently along Brendan’s ribs. Sam sighs, and Brendan holds him a little tighter. Sam is more than used to snuggles in seven years of friendship, more than used to taking care of Brendan, so he’s been able to tell the difference between needy Brendan who wants someone to cuddle with because he’s down, or lonely, and this new, panicky Brendan who thinks Sam is going to evaporate or disappear.


	38. Sam, Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same night, after the City.

That night he wasn’t even feeling particularly reckless. He was just so, so tired. He wanted to sleep and forget all of the bullshit he felt guilty for, whatever he wasn’t good enough for, all those shit emotions building a huge tower in the back of his mind, just on the edge of collapsing. Naturally, he couldn’t, so he went to the bar for a “nightcap” or whatever. Sometimes when Sam was drunk lately, he’d end up staying with Brendan because it was on the way home. Sam was in Brendan’s neighborhood because that’s where his favorite dive bar was. They had cheap drinks and the bartender was sweet and undoubtedly that’s the ONLY reason he liked it. It had nothing to do with the fact that when Sam walked outside to head home from the bar, he ends up on a path that comes close to Brendan’s apartment building. He didn’t really plan this one out. When he got there, he was even more tired than drunk, so he didn’t have that excuse. In the last twenty minutes of the walk the skies of the city had opened up and essentially poured bucket after bucket of water on the people and buildings and cars, and streets. That might be had a better excuse than usual - it was fucking pouring plus it was the beginning of the fall chill. He’d tell Brendan that, Sam decided: his clothes were soaked, he was shivering like a motherfucker, and the thought of walking all the way to his flat that’s like twenty five blocks away made him want to die (that was one of his most frequent thoughts, actually, but he’d leave that out). It might seem less clingy or pathetic to show up that way.   
Brendan hasn’t said anything about the impromptu stops over, but Sam feels like Brendan must be getting tired of him being around by now. His guilt about showing up to Brendan’s house only went so far. He also felt a little entitled because he was still here. Brendan made him make that stupid fucking promise not to hurt himself. He is a lot of shitty things, but he isn’t a liar… at least, not yet. So, tonight, Brendan would have to deal with his wet drunk ass. His emotions slid back and forth through those two feelings pretty rapidly: he’d feel weird about showing up, then indignant at the fact that Brendan could dislike his random appearances, then back to feeling guilty, this time for being indignant. It was hard to ever reach a stopping point.  
Sam had gone into the elevator dripping. He had propped himself against the wall, debating how long he should wait before he left for home telling himself that Brendan wouldn’t answer. He’d knocked quietly on purpose – he shouldn’t keep doing this. It’s not fair to Brendan (back to this circular thought/feeling again). He was therefore surprised when Brendan opened the door. His forehead resting on his knees allowed him to school his face before he looked up at Brendan. Brendan looked surprised, then sad, similar to Sam’s reaction.   
Now he sat on the couch fucking around with the acoustic that he figured Brendan hated, he was dwelling on the bullshit. He really hated himself and couldn't believe what a disappointment he was as a friend, a son, a human.   
Sam caught Brendan looking at him and blushed. Great. He probably looked ridiculous in Brendan's clothes but he was so gross from the rain. And cold.  
Brendan came over with beer and flopped down on top of Sam. He was lying with his hair tickling Sam’s chin and was almost crushing Sam with his grip around Sam’s ribs. Sam has no idea what Brendan is thinking when he does shit like this. Sam tries a lot to tell Brendan that he has no control over Sam's feelings and that he's not responsible for Sam’s well-being, but Brendan just looks away and shakes his head. Regardless of all of his sadness and exhaustion, Sam can’t help but love this closeness of Brendan in his lap. The sadness he feels keeps his body from responding in an awkward way to the feel of Brendan’s body resting between his legs. He thinks that it’s infuriating that his proximity to Brendan is something that makes him feel hope, and to actually feel a little better, because he knows, he just knows that there’s no reason for all of that. His new bullshit therapist is trying to get him to “challenge” the thoughts that Brendan is upset because he feels guilty. Ha.  
Brendan shifted sideways, sliding over Sam’s leg and wedging himself between the couch and Sam. He lay on his side, effectively moving Sam to the edge of the couch so that he was hanging over the edge. He started playing with the hem of Sam’s shirt near the collar and then the hem of the sleeve. Sam sighed and moved onto his side too, to better accommodate Brendan’s couch monopoly. Pain in the ass. Sam lay with his arm under his head, looking at Brendan, whose eyes were now closed. His hair length was getting to the point where Sam would need to cut it again. He reached forward with his free hand and moved Brendan’s hair off of his forehead. Sam liked it better when he could see Bren’s face. He hasn’t been this close to Brendan’s face since that night they kissed while Sam was drunk. Sam remembers kissing Brendan, parts of it anyway. Brendan never brought it up so Sam didn’t think he should – what if it was a dream or something? As he pushes Brendan’s hair back, they make eye contact. Brendan has bright blue eyes, like the color of the ocean in the Caribbean at dawn. Yeah, that was a really schmoopy simile but Sam doesn’t give a fuck. That’s what color they are. Sam usually makes it a point not to look Brendan in the eye because he gets overwhelmed by their color and intensity. Brendan’s eyelashes are as dark as his hair and make the blue even more intense. Sam scolds himself mentally. He has got to stop thinking about the drunk kiss and how hot Brendan is. His body is betraying him. He pauses, pulling his hand back. They look for a few seconds, Sam making sure their hips are nowhere near touching so he doesn’t have to explain, rolls over in the direction of the TV. He is so grateful that Brendan has never noticed how much he turns Sam on. He sits up, grabbing his beer. He sips at it and mentally says the pledge of allegiance over and over. He holds the other in Brendan’s direction, not turning around.  
“I am suddenly not interested in it anymore. Thanks though, dude.”  
They lapse into silence, the only sound that’s audible is Brendan’s dryer tumbling away in the bathroom and Sam’s own breathing in his ears. After eleven repetitions of the teapot song and thoughts of Ann Coulter naked, Sam is better.   
“Want to watch one of your shitty old movies?”  
“If you want, Sammy.” Brendan’s voice is quiet and his fingers trace light patterns on Sam’s back. Sam fights off a shiver – he leans forward and grabs the remote, pounding the DVD button with his thumb. He needs to get Brendan’s hands off so he can keep his body from reacting inappropriately. Brendan isn’t even doing anything sexy! Ugh. Sam stays sitting up with the remote, trying to get the TV on. Sam gets frustrated with the buttons and grits out,  
“Okay, how about the one in the DVD player already. I don’t remember what happened.”   
Brendan slides closer behind him, looking over Sam’s shoulder and taking the remote. His voice is quiet but his breath is right by Sam’s ear:   
“That’s because you were reading.”  
Sam gets goosebumps and fights a shudder. His eyes close involuntarily. His ears are one of his ‘spots.’ Sam pretends like nothing happened, though, once he recovers.  
“Oh. Well. You said I’d like it right? Let me try it again as long as you don’t mind watching it again.”  
“It’s one of my favorites. I never get tired of it.”   
His breath is so close and so warm that Sam almost thinks he’s doing it on purpose. …but Brendan doesn’t know about his ear thing and what could be the point? He has a better grip this time because he was expecting it. Sam turns around and grins at Brendan, trying really hard to fake it. It feels worse than it did before that night because now he thinks Brendan doesn’t trust him. Brendan pulls his hand back, but leaves it hovering near Sam.   
“You never get tired of any of this bullshit, B.”  
“It is so unrealistic and silly that it lets me just forget for awhile.” His voice is subdued. Sam wonders if he’s going “down.”  
Slamming the button enough times seemed to work and by the time the disc loads, Sam is much calmer, physically and mentally. Brendan is already supine and Sam slides back down, lying in front of Brendan. He folds his arms across his chest and leans his head on the couch pillow. He reclines backwards, leaning not quite flush against Brendan. Brendan scoots up so his head is on the giant pillow that rests against the desperately uncomfortable arm of the couch. He props on one arm up on top of the pillow, bending it and leaning his head across. He wants it to support his head in order to see the TV, Sam assumes. He puts his other hand on Sam’s ribs. Sam breathes in sharply, once, and then focuses on being calm and keeping his breathing even. His mantra is ‘Don’t be stupid.’ Sam tries hard to watch the movie and actually get something out of it, but Brendan’s hands are tracing patterns again along Sam’s side, moving down his shirt to his hip. B’s fingers slide a little under his shirt each time they reach Sam’s hip, dragging it up further each time. Sam is focusing now, instead, on not reacting to Brendan’s touch physically. ‘Don’t be stupid.’ Inhale. Don’t be stupid.’ Exhale. Brendan speaks and it interrupts his mental chanting and meditation.  
“Dude, did you see the pissed off ghost-looking thing? He’s my favorite part.”  
“Uh- what?” Sam was most definitely not paying attention to the movie. He was focused on Brendan’s hand – the patterns and trying to meditate.  
“I love that ghost thing. He’s a badass motherfucker! Look at that axe!” Brendan slid his hand under Sam’s shirt completely and gripped Sam’s hip with his hand for emphasis. “BADASS.” His hand resumed its tracing but stayed under Sam’s shirt.   
Sam can’t keep it up anymore. He can’t control himself, even with meditation, when Brendan has his hands on Sam. He full-body shivers, goosebumps spreading up his arms. Brendan doesn’t notice or he pretends not to notice. Sam doesn’t know which it is, but he assumes it’s the former as Brendan isn’t even paying attention to his own hands. He’s just watching the movie and molesting Sam unconsciously. This has happened a few times before, but Sam has been really sleepy or able to weasel his way out. Brendan’s fingertips reach the waist of the sweatpants Sam is sporting. Brendan slides his fingers forward along the ridges of the waist to Sam’s “happy trail” and back, making a “U” shape as his fingertips trail back up Sam’s side. Sam is now completely panicking and full-body-shivers again, against his best efforts, breathing picking up a little. He hopes Brendan can’t tell.


	39. Brendan, Past

Brendan loves Sam’s skin. He loves the way Sam’s breathing speeds up when Sam is touched, especially when he is touched lightly. He loves the way Sam can’t focus on anything when he is being touched. He loves Sam’s hip bones, he loves the ridges of Sam’s ab muscles, he loves Sam’s happy trail. Good thing he’s seen this movie like, 24 times by now. He takes the opportunity of not having to pay attention to touch Sam. Why the hell not, right? He has skimmed his fingers along Sam’s arms and back when they’re in bed. Plus he gets away with all his other stunts. He can be outrageous. Maybe Sam will attribute this behavior to the outrageousness of Brendan’s usual personality. He slides his fingertips along the line where Sam’s pants meet skin. Brendan has gotten pretty good at making it seem like touching Sam is just something his hands do when he’s engrossed in whatever. Really though, he only does this to Sam and it’s deliberate. He’s usually not paying attention to anything but Sam’s soft skin and the ridges of his muscles. Brendan’s hips are tilted backwards just enough so that Sam would not be able to tell how much he “likes” Sam’s skin.   
He is exploring more right now than he ever really has. He had a little bit of a chance when they kissed, last, but he’s not supposed to remember that. Why the fuck shouldn’t he play, right? It’s not like things can get any worse for their relationship. If Sam tells him to back off then he will and he won’t let things get weirder. He knows it’s a shot in the dark, anyway. His fingertips brush up Sam’s ribs and back down his side to his hip. Sam moves just a little when his fingers dance over his side in a particularly sensitive spot. Brendan loves having his touch do that – find the sensitive spots all over Sam. He edges his fingers under Sam’s shirt to punctuate a point about the movie. Brendan is proud of himself for pulling that comment about the ghost out of his ass. Sam either isn’t paying attention or Brendan was spot-on. Sam moves again as Brendan slides his fingertips just a little bit under the waist of the sweatpants. Brendan thinks Sam may have shivered from the touch, but he can’t be sure (unless he presses this more…).  
Bolder than ever, Brendan slides his fingertips forward along the top of Sam’s pants about a half inch beneath the waist, forward to the fine line of hair that trails from his navel beneath the hem of his pants. He isn’t sure Sam is even wearing boxers. Sam undoubtedly shivers this time. It’s apparent that it’s not an “ick” shiver from the way Sam’s cheeks are tinted pink and his breathing is shallow and rapid. Brendan smiles a little. Then he’s thinking of that intense kiss, Sam’s passion and enthusiasm, and his own revelation earlier that he is in love with Sam. Brendan has to live for the moment because he never knows when he might lose his Sammy, right? He was wrong once before and he can’t afford not to carpe this diem. He trails his fingers again through the line of hair that travels down from Sam’s navel to the edge of the sweatpants and lightly runs his fingers along the edge, dipping just a little more.  
Sam shifts, either from sensitivity, to get more touch, or to show Brendan that he’s uncomfortable. It can be really hard to read Sam sometimes. He hopes it’s the second option, though. The movie gets to a point where the scientists are dryly discussing the biology of cats growing to gigantic proportions and terrorizing towns, and Brendan slides the majority of his fingertips into the sweatpants that cover Sam’s hip. Brendan’s fingers are splayed along Sam’s thigh, his thumb running over Sam’s hipbone, grazing the edge of the hairline. Sam pulls in a quick breath and shudders through his whole body. Sam stills, then rolls to face Brendan. Brendan picks his hand up (or, rather, pulls it out) to allow the move, but he leaves his hand hovering in the air above Sam’s hip. Sam’s shirt is still pulled up. Brendan looks at Sam’s light brown skin where he can see the light outline of Sam’s abs. He can’t help but stare. He loves the think black line hair that directs him lower, especially, and he can hardly this is the body Sam is so self-conscious of. He rests his hovering hand on the exposed skin, trailing his thumb over the ridges of muscle. He slides his hand up and down Sam’s side, thumb sliding over ribs, stomach, nipples, even. He wants to lick the lines of Sam’s stomach, he wants to lick everywhere until Sam is—  
Okay, stop, Brendan. Relax.   
He takes a deep breath, talks himself down and with effort. He lifts his gaze from Sam’s waist to meet Sam’s eyes.  
He could swear that they’re the brightest green, now. The pupils are almost as large as the irises and Sam’s frowning softly, lips parted, like he’s struggling to say something but can’t bring himself to. Sam’s breathing is as shallow as Brendan’s is, but the look on his face is one of confusion, not interest. Like he had no idea what was going on. Brendan stills his hand on Sam’s warm skin. Sam shifts, looks away, down at the shirt Brendan has on. He plays with the fabric at the hem with his fingertips; he is almost brushing Brendan’s skin but not quite. Brendan shifted to make it look like his pants were just bunched up, not that he was almost painfully hard from Sam (as best he could, anyway – there’s only so much he can do).  
Brendan took the moment to look at Sam’s face again, quietly, without touching more than resting his hand. It will give Sam time to figure out if he wants to talk or get up and walk away. Sam’s chin has stubble, maybe two days’ worth. Brendan likes the scruffy look on him, but honestly Brendan likes pretty much anything on him (except that one orange sweater that Brendan’s been trying to throw the fuck out for years). Sam’s hair is falling into his left eye from the angle his head rests against the pillow. Sam is always messing with his hair – he can’t keep his hands out of it. It makes Brendan want to weave his fingers into the back or play with it. It is also always falling in his face, especially at this almost-too-long length. While he’s curled against Brendan, he unconsciously lifts one hand from to brush away the part that’s hanging forward, sweeping it to the side. When Sam puts his hand back down, he moves it from crossed against his chest to flat against Brendan’s stomach. His palm stays flat but his fingers play with the fabric of the t-shirt. As he moves to touch Brendan, the stubborn piece of hair falls right back into his eye. Sam just leaves it in his face this time as if he doesn’t even notice. Brendan brushes the hair back in a different way so that it stays out of Sam’s eyes, unable to resist touching it, touching Sam. The hair stays put this time and Brendan rests his hand at the top of Sam’s bicep and shoulder. Sam is startled at the touch to his hair, like he forgot Brendan was awake or there at all, looking back up at Brendan with impossibly bright, definitely green, wide eyes. Sam frowns again when he makes eye contact with Brendan. Brendan hates that face. His Sammybear shouldn’t frown anymore – he’s seen enough of Sam miserable to last for the rest of their lives, especially after this past few months. He wishes he could fix it. His eyes shift to Sam’s mouth, briefly.  
Brendan is suddenly aware of how close they are. He can see how far Sam’s lips are parted (and thus how perfectly his lip would fit in between). He can feel Sam breathe under his hands, feel Sam’s heartbeat from where his fingers rest against Sam’s neck. He wants to lick every part of Sam’s jawline and kiss his neck… but he settles for just touching at the moment. Unaware of where his continued courage comes from – something just seems to have snapped in the doorway, or maybe he’s encouraged that Sam hasn’t freaked out yet – he moves his thumb up Sam’s shoulder to his jaw and slides his fingers gently over parts of Sam’s face. He starts with just his thumb because it’s the closest, but finds he likes using his fingertips better.  
B slides his fingertips across Sam’s jawline, chin to ear, slipping them slowly and gently over the outside of Sam’s ear. He brushes a thumb through Sam’s sideburns and then slides his hands up into Sam’s hair. Sam looks at him for all of five seconds of the exploration, then closes his eyes and bites his lip, leaning into the touch a little, almost self-consciously. Brendan has done stuff like this to Sam before – playing with his hair, snuggling, petting him – and it’s never enough. This time, though, except for the not kissing part, is perfect. He loves being able to touch and remember all of the amazing beautiful parts of Sam. He uses his thumb to tilt Sam’s head up to look at him. With the pause in touch, Sam opens his eyes and green meets blue. He searches Sam’s face for any sign of disgust or anger but can’t find any. It actually looks like a combination of fear and interest, but Brendan could just be reading into it what he himself is projecting. Sliding his fingers over Sam’s forehead, he moves his fingertips from Sam’s eyebrows to the corner of his eyes and eyelashes down to brush his thumb lightly over Sam’s beautiful mouth. Sam lets go of the lip he’s been biting and breathes in deeply through his mouth. Brendan slides his finger over the wet, red bottom lip. Sam parts his lips further, involuntarily, and Brendan slides his finger over the exposed inside of Sam’s bottom lip, dragging part of it down when he slides his hand away.  
Brendan is thinking of taking a big step, carpe-ing this fucking diem and just kissing him but he is so so scared. He wants to kiss every part of Sam, wants to so badly, but it would change everything. He doesn’t want to fuck this up. Sam tried to suicide a few months ago. What is he thinking? The answer is he’s not. He’s being selfish. Plus the last time he tried this they weren’t really in a “consenting” state of mind, either of them. Sam doesn’t even remember. Now that they both are sober, he can’t even make excuses and will have to face the consequences if he goes for it... That fucking mouth, though. Sam is just looking at him, unmoving. He blinks, and his lips stayed parted. B’s thumb finds its way back to Sam’s bottom lip and uses a little more pressure this time. Sam’s breath catches, his hand sort of clutching at Brendan’s shirt. Brendan gets a better look at Sam’s perfect mouth: all straight white teeth, soft lips, pink tongue. Sam’s tongue slides out to lick his lip and bumps against Brendan’s thumb. Brendan can’t help it. He moves his hand to tilt Sam’s face towards his. He loves this kid with all of his heart. If he fucks this up, he will fix it, whatever it takes. He’s not going to lose Sam over one kiss. At least he can hold on to the one – and maybe Sam won’t even punch him (at least not in the face). Sam’s got his eyes open wide and green, lips shiny and parted. Brendan closes his eyes and leans forward until their lips meet.


	40. Sam, Past

Sam’s brain has short-circuited. He’s got to be delusional, or dreaming – or maybe someone slipped him drugs? Brendan was really pushing it. He would tickle Sam to be a douche, cling when he needed love and attention, and basically use Sam as furniture, but never has he traced Sam’s facial features – his lips! – nor has he slid his fingers into his fucking pants! Brendan. Had his hand. Down Sam’s PANTS. Maybe it wasn’t Sam's issue, then. Maybe Brendan has finally completely lost his freaking mind; god knows he was on his way... Or is it really drugs this time? Oh, or maybe he hasn’t taken his meds like he should.  
Sam’s sad attempt at rationalizing train of thought is quickly derailed. Brendan is brushing his fingertips up under the shirt Sam has on, on his hips, thumb tracing the outline of his muscle that, if he kept going, would lead from the outside of his hip at an angle down into his pants. Sam is trying quite hard concentrate enough to rationalize all of this in his mind. He knows, somewhere in his head, that hope is bullshit, wondering why the fuck would Brendan be interested anyway. This thought helps him become more grounded as he meets Brendan’s eyes again. Maybe Brendan just wants someone to fuck because he’s bored or sad or whatever. Sam doesn’t think he can handle that, but he’s willing to try. He will have had the one experience, at least, and they’re best friends, so Sam sincerely hopes this won’t fuck things up. Brendan’s thumb brushes against Sam’s lip with more weight than last time and Sam has absolutely no idea why this is turning him on. He hopes that Brendan will just keep looking at his face and not the tent he pitched in the worst pants ever for hiding erections...  
Another brief moment passes of “what the fuck” when Brendan explores Sam’s face, looking as if he’s attempting to catalogue all of Sam’s features. Sam wonders, vaguely, if this is what he’s like with all of the people he fucks or if he thinks he needs to do something different because it's Sam. Oh, god, what if this is a pity fuck? Does Brendan think he needs a "pick me up?" What if Brendan thinks he can ‘get Sam back on his feet’ this way? The thought disappears as Sam’s breath catches when Brendan’s thumb grazes Sam’s bottom lip - Brendan seems to have sent an electric shock from his fingers through Sam’s lips straight to Sam’s dick. He licks said lip instinctively and catches Brendan’s thumb. His eyes close and he can’t help but breathe raggedly. He wants Brendan’s hands everywhere. Trying to get it under control. He wants to lick Brendan everywhere. Shit, he needs to meditate. His thoughts are racing at the speed of light. Sam accidentally licked Brendan. “Don’t be stupid.” Inhale. “Don’t’ be stupid.” Exhale.  
Sam rationalizes that it wasn’t on purpose; he trying to take a deep breath. Brendan jerks his hand back (while Sam contemplates) like he was burned, sucking in breath himself. When Sam opens his eyes, Brendan moves his hand back to Sam’s face and slides his fingers back against Sam’s jaw again, tilting Sam’s head up to look into Brendan’s face. Sam is pretty sure his heart is pounding louder than the television, which, with Brendan, is at “as loud as this motherfucker can go” ninety-five percent of the time (so that’s saying something). They make eye contact. Brendan’s bright blue eyes look dazed interested intense and sad all at once. So many things said with just a look. Sam blinks that away, and when he opens his eyes, Brendan is about a half an inch from Sam. Sam waits for the letdown, for Brendan to brush away an eyelash, or for him to be like “JK LOL! You’re gross!” Instead, Brendan breathes in, gently tilts Sam’s face upward and presses his soft, amazing lips to Sam’s.  
This kiss is quiet, polite at first. Sam breathes in through his nose, pulling in the scent of Brendan. They pull apart briefly. Brendan’s eyes search Sam’s face – what, like he was going to stop the kissing!? – and Sam smiles a little. Involuntary. Brendan doesn’t smile but he slides his hand into the hair at the back of Sam’s head, and kisses him again. Sam slides his hands up too, fingers through Brendan’s hair, moving, carding it, scraping his nails. Brendan licks a little along Sam’s bottom lip and Sam opens his mouth. Their tongues meet with the charge of a car battery and they press closer, the kiss growing more intense by the second.  
The last time Sam remembers feeling like this he was shocked by that wire from a lamp at some kid’s house for a party… or maybe when he rode the tallest rollercoaster at the amusement park when he was ten. Both sum up to be: “Holy shit.” A kiss shouldn’t feel like this; it’s just a regular kiss, if not “sort-of-awkward-because-of-the-angle” kiss, but goddamn did this feel different to Sam. It’s like his nerves - fuck, his everything - is alive, electric. Sam kisses back with intensity, closing his eyes and fisting Brendan’s shirt with one hand, trying to stay grounded.  
He scratches lightly at the nape of Brendan’s neck with his blunt nails, moving in purposeful slow circles at the back of Brendan’s head. Brendan makes an impossibly sexy noise in his throat. Sam does it again, scratching and pulls on Brendan’s hair a little. Brendan moans into Sam’s mouth, like he’s really into this – which, okay, yes, more please – and moves to slide Sam onto his back. The kiss breaks, and Sam finds himself gasping for air and looking into the face of his best friend. It’s just too fucking real for a second and he completely panics. Since Sam can use his brain again, and he starts freaking out and imagining the consequences. WHY is he doing this? To fuck with him?  
Then Brendan straddles his thighs, plants one hand above Sam’s head on the arm of the couch, slides the other behind Sam’s head, and leans forward again. Sam’s brain shuts off, thinking only “kisses!” and “uuummmfffffffffffff” and other noises of happiness. Sam pushes up off his back with his elbows to meet Brendan so B doesn’t have to lean all the way down. The hand that Brendan isn’t bracing himself with goes back to Sam’s jawline. He likes running his thumb along the stubble of Sam’s jaw, Sam thinks. Brendan tilts Sam’s head sideways and nips along Sam’s jaw to his neck and up to his ear. Oh. He really likes Sam’s jaw. Sam shudders again and makes and embarrassing noise of his own (“MMmmm, aaaaahhhh!” to be precise). Sam’s hand gets re-tangled in Brendan’s hair and he can hear himself making more embarrassing noises. He will likely regret these later but right now all he can think is “ohgod, yes, please, more.”  
Sam can feel Brendan’s heart racing underneath his palm when he pulls his hand down, out of the grip he has on the t-shirt. He is holding it against Brendan’s chest to steady himself. He decides it’s better to be unstable because oh, god, the moans and sighs that Sam gets from Bren’s hair? So much better. He slides it back up to Brendan’s neck, wrapping around it, pulling him impossibly closer. Sam wants to push the hair out of Brendan’s face, curl it behind his ear, be sweet and romantic. It’s been a really long time since he’s been with anyone and he doesn’t think he’ll get another shot at this. Since his brain is off – fuck it right? He pulls back, dragging his fingertips up Brendan’s cheek to his bangs, and lightly tucks his bangs behind his ear. Sam watches Brendan’s eyes, while he moves the rest of Brendan’s hair off his forehead. They flit between Sam’s eyes and his clearly been-kissed lips. Brendan tilts his head to the side and his bangs swing forward again. He’s shifting so his arm is underneath Sam and holds him closer. Brendan brings his eyes to Sam’s again and smiles a little. He closes his eyes and leans forward kiss the side of Sam’s mouth, to lick along Sam’s bottom lip and nip it before drawing back. Sam gasps, hips involuntarily moving to seek Brendan’s; who knew his lips were this fucking sensitive? First the fingers and now a tongue? He’s never reacted this way before.  
His mouth parts from the gasp and Brendan’s tongue slips in. Their kiss grows more desperate. Brendan shifts his hips restlessly forward from his spot on Sam’s thighs, wanting friction, wanting something, and Sam thinks that he knows exactly how Bren feels. He pushes himself so he is sitting up completely. Brendan’s knees are still on either side of his hips. Sam rests one hand on Brendan’s side, the other sliding Brendan’s hair behind his ear, fingering his sideburns and outer rim of Brendan’s ear. Brendan pulls back from their kiss again, eyes squinted closed, panting. His hands rest on Sam’s hips and he leans his forehead against Sam’s before opening his eyes. They’re still incredibly intense and bright, bright blue. Sam smiles a little then pulls Brendan forward with the hand he has tangled in Brendan’s hair. Sam tilts Brendan’s head to the side using his grip on Brendan’s hair to steer, and kisses along his jawline up to his ear. Brendan’s breathing grows harsher; Sam slides his tongue along the outside of Brendan’s ear, pulling part of it into his mouth and nipping with his teeth and Brendan moans the loudest yet. Sam smiles, licks the outside of his hear again then sucks on the bottom before moving to drag his mouth against Brendan’s neck. He pulls Brendan’s head to the side a little more, continuing to use his hair as a means of steering, for better access. Sam reaches up to nibble on Brendan’s ear a bit more, breathing out a warmth and nipping – the combination of warm breath on the cold left from Sam’s mouth give Brendan a full-body shiver and goose bumps on his arms. Sam’s proud of himself, smiling as he bites the spot where Brendan’s shoulder meets his neck, leaving a mark. He’s glad that he’s finding all of Brendan’s spots.  
Brendan pulls in a sharp breath and Sam licks his way back up Brendan’s neck. Sam pulls back and makes eye contact with Brendan again, smiling for real this time. Brendan opens his eyes and pulls back, breathing hard and looking at Sam like he’s never seen him before. He knits his eyebrows together, slides his hands up Sam’s sides and cups Sam’s face in his hands. He is looking at Sam too intensely to smile, sliding his thumbs across Sam’s cheeks like he’s holding something delicate. Sam’s smile fades as his brain restarts. It appears to be making up for lost time: he’s thinking too much again. Fuck, he’s thinking at all – naturally he’s going to be upset with the outcome. Delicate. He isn’t going to be healed by having sex with Brendan. Especially not pity sex. Brendan leans forward. Sam’s hand is obviously not connected to his heart or his dick, but his brain, as it finds its way up to hold Brendan back by pushing on his chest. Brendan he pulls back, though not completely, and looks at Sam, confused.  
“Why are you kissing me?” Sam asks abruptly, frowning now.  
“Oh fuck, I’m sorry. Shit. I just—I didn’t think you wanted— you kissed back and so I—oh shit Sam. I’m sorry.”  
Brendan scrambles to pull back but Sam grabs his forearms and holds him in place.  
“I’m not angry or anything, not even close, just confused. Why? Because you pity me? Or you think you’re helping? I don’t want to fuck this up by getting your intentions wrong and I don’t REALLY don’t want your fucking pity.”


	41. Brendan, Past

“I’m not angry or anything, not even close, just confused. Why? Because you pity me? Or you think you’re helping? I don’t want to fuck this up by getting your intentions wrong and I don’t REALLY don’t want your fucking pity.” Sam says this nonchalant, like it’s just nothing. Brendan couldn’t possibly have heard that. There’s a pause while Brendan processes this.   
“What?” Really? Brendan is a little mad.  
“No, Sam! What the fuck? You really think that’s my personality? You think I mess with people’s heads? FUCK you, Sam.”  
Brendan’s hurt, now. He shouldn’t bitch because he got what he’s always wanted, but he wishes Sam wouldn’t think so low of him. He struggles against Sam’s grip on his arms. Sam just holds more tightly.  
“It’s not that, Bren. I— I know you’re not a douchebag; I just— um, I just, I don’t understand what’s going on.”  
Sam sighs but smiles at Brendan before he says,   
“I feel pretty confident that it doesn’t have anything to do with being interested in me and I think I have a right to know since I’m involved.”   
This comes out in a rush. Brendan looks at him, frowning. Like, what is he saying? That Brendan wants to use him? He’s sure there’s more to it than that. There’s got to be more to it. Sam frowns too, looking concerned and then it seems like Sam tries to explain –   
“Not that I’m saying I want to stop.”  
Sam shifts and laughs uncomfortably. He clears his throat. Brendan thinks about how the sudden onset of shyness must mean he’s really uncomfortable.   
“Um, I just want to understand better so I don’t fuck up.”   
"Okay Sam, just – just hold on.”  
Sam just starts talking.  
"I, uh, realized… some things lately. They’ve been around for a long time but I just sort of, pushed them away. I’m really sorry if you are upset or feel violated or whatever because I'm putting too much into this kiss. Ijust, um, want this to get better? Not that it's not good, but, you know... better."  
"Sam, what are you talking about?"  
"You. You and me. What's going on right now."  
"Are you asking me to stop?"  
"No, just, apologizing, I guess."  
"I am so confused. What are you apologizing for?"  
"Always putting too much into our relationship. I put too much of myself into our time together, helping you, this kiss, everything."  
Brendan doesn't know what to say. Is Sam saying he hasn't tried hard enough? There's silence for longer than Brendan intends but he's trying to put things together.  
"I'm just, I'm gonna go."   
Brendan pulls back, gets off from on top of Sam. Sam walks out.


	42. Sam, Present

Sam has no idea where he is and takes a moment to survey his surroundings before he fully opens his eyes. His wrists and chest hurt like a motherfucker. He’s on something that’s supposed to be soft but it isn’t – a bed, probably, because there’s what might be a pillow underneath his head. There’s something heavy on him to the right, and whatever it is, is pretty warm. There are a lot of muffled voices, like the door of the room is closed and the voices all outside the room. He can also hear some beeping and a television (ugh) blaring nonsense somewhere relatively close by.   
But holy shit, do his wrists fucking hurt. He blinks his eyes open and sees that he’s in a hospital bed. Someone is lying next to him on the bed but Sam can’t see his/her face. Judging by hair alone, it is either a female adolescent who has not showered in six months or it is Brendan. It’s likely the latter as Sam does not know any female adolescents. Unless maybe he’s in hell. Is this hell? He wonders if the adolescent girl is a permanent attachment, if she talks, and what about her made her appear in his particular hell. He also wonders, because in a hospital in hell you have a roommate, if Britney Spears has the next bed over. Judging by the fact that the room is temperature controlled and he has no faith, he’d say he’s still alive. Only his life could be worse than that fate.  
Sam has definitely figured out what he’s doing here, now. Shit. He failed at changing the one thing in his life that he felt he had control over. He fucked this up too. He can’t even kill himself right. He needs to stop with the razor method – not working. He’s so frustrated that he almost starts to get upset but pulls himself together. He will fake it until he goes home and then just finish it then. Maybe he can convince Brendan to go home so he can ask for a sedative to go back to sleep until he can make it out of here.  
Sam closes his eyes again and shifts a little. Sam can feel B sit up very quickly, apparently surprised by movement. Sam blinks his eyes open again, pretending it’s the first time. He squints against the light and his currently-brown eyes meet watery blue ones. Sam is surprised to see Brendan such a mess though he hides it well. Brendan’s arm is in a sling, half his face is purple and swollen, he is breathing strangely – Sam can tell from the way he’s sitting and the way his chest is moving - he is filthy, and it’s clear that he’d been crying recently. This is worse than Sam’s ever seen of Brendan, even when he’s at the lowest depths of his depression or on his most reckless nights of binging. Sam says,   
“Wow, dude, you look like shit.”  
Brendan barks a laugh then starts crying again almost immediately. He lies back down, curled up next to Sam on the tiny hospital bed gripping Sam to the point where it's painful. Sam wiggles a little, annoyed that Brendan is pretending and annoyed that his grip is uncomfortable. They manage to fit somehow and Sam moves his arm and the shit connected to it around Brendan. Brendan is crying against Sam’s chest, now. He sits up and tries to talk while looking down at the sheet/blanket. He’s definitely not looking at Sam’s wrists or face. The words that he manages to get out start off clear-ish but he’s getting harder to understand with each word.  
“How (breath) could you (breath) think that I (breath) could (breath) – could (breath) – (breath)—” Brendan can’t get it out all the way and is now crying in earnest. He buries his face in Sam’s chest and is shaking the bed with how hard he’s crying. Sam’s always been great at rationalizing: Brendan’s an emotional guy and anyone who had to find someone they’d med bleeding in their bathroom is bound to have a reaction. He hadn’t thought out what would happen if Brendan found him so he wasn’t thinking about a reaction. This made sense though. It was a shock, stressful, even traumatic, and this is a comfortable place to be upset about it. For the life of him, though, Sam just doesn’t know what that sentence Brendan tried to get out could have possible been. “How could you think that I could be the one who cleans up your body?” or “How could you think that I could afford the funeral?” Sam has seen him cry like this at least twenty times: breakups, his parents divorcing, seeing that kid OD at a show, his childhood dog dying, that thing with the mosh pit.   
Sam will comfort him until he calms down so he can go get cleaned up and get himself taken care of. He really does look like shit.


	43. Sam, Present

Sam left the hospital after the mandatory hold to a disgruntled cat and hovering best friend. He came home and went back to work – they graciously let him keep his job – and he goes to an intensive outpatient program. He takes his meds, goes day to day. The thing is, he doesn’t know why he keeps going. The group that he goes to on Wednesdays talks about holding onto the little things – smiles, a good book, a nice sunset - but it all sounds like bullshit to him. He thinks that what keeps him around, for now, is remembering that look on Brendan’s face when he tried to argue that Brendan should go home. He looked shattered. Sam knows what that feels like and he doesn’t want to be the reason someone else feels that way. So, until he figures out a way to deal with that, he’ll keep going.


	44. Brendan, Present

Sam and Brendan are playing around in Brendan’s music room, playing records and lying on the foor. Sam’s eyes are closed and he’s not smiling, but his thumb taps to the beat of Sam Cooke. Brendan’s watching him, trying not to think about anything bad. From this angle Brendan can’t see his wrists because they’re hidden by the shirt he’s wrapped his hands up in – Brendan can actually see a little of his stomach – and his hands hide the scars. He thinks about Sam’s hands and wrists - they still hold scars despite months of healing – and it makes him feel sick. He tries to force himself to stop thinking like that. He can’t think about the scars or the cuts that made them. Or the fact that there were two sets, one he hadn’t known about. Or that these would fade eventually, unless Sam was able to “finish the job” (his words) the next time.   
He thinks about, remembers, that “click” moment, when he got to kiss Sam. It clicks, in a different way, immediately after that thought, that his relationship with Sam is unstable at the moment, and then he’s suddenly praying to “God,” even though he has no faith, that Sam’s thoughts aren’t dark. Brendan worries about it a lot, that Sam is brooding or whatever, after that night. Brendan rationalizes, thinking “Maybe he’s like, planning his schedule for the week or thinking about their friend Garry’s birthday or something and not miserable or planning his suicide!” Times like this were becoming less frequent for Brendan (thank Christ) since Sam’s attempt, but it never failed to set his heart racing or make his breath come in short pants. He takes a second to collect himself in the doorway. He didn’t need the frame for stability when he was realizing he was in love but now that it’s combined with this crippling fear, he finds himself holding on to it, leaning against with his free hand. He tries to hold on with what he hopes looks like a casual motion - like he is purposely standing there, relaxed as usual – because now his thoughts are spiraling. It all feels completely out of his control, this thought process. Like he just can’t stop the pictures or the dark twists to his thought train. He’s thinking about what it would be like losing Sam. He thinks about how Sam looked that night. The pictures are harder to stop than the other stuff : Sam pale and covered in blood, or Sam sobbing in the shower, or Sam curled in a ball on the floor with the huge gashes in his wrists. Brendan imagines the alphabet in his head, each letter given a different color. Brendan sometimes had to stop what he was doing and take a breath or count to calm down, derail it by physically stopping the activity he’s participating in. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t. This time, he can see the alphabet and he doesn’t have to sit. Regardless of the outcome – whether he can calm himself or not – he’s gotten good at making up excuses by necessity because this was a lot more frequent after the first few days of Sam coming home. Brendan gets up and goes to get beer. He comes back, stands in the doorway for a moment, looking. Cataloguing Sam. It’s obviously been a little too long of just standing, staring, and Sam looks up.  
“Dude, what are you doing? Stop staring at me. You’re being creepy.”  
Brendan grins like he was doing it on purpose. “You spaced out, weirdo. I was wondering how long you’d take to notice. The answer is ‘forever.’ I was getting bored.” (He pats himself on the back f or this save.)  
Sam rolls his eyes. “You get me one too?”  
Brendan holds up the two bottles in his left hand, grateful that his quick-thinking cover-up explained their temperature and the level of condensation on the bottles. Practice makes perfect. He pushes himself up off the frame with his shoulder and makes his way back to the floor. The time he took standing and thinking about the alphabet wasn’t quite long enough to slow his heart but his breathing was steady again. At least the pictures were gone. He hoped Sam wouldn’t notice his unease or his heartbeat. Brendan puts his head on Sam’s chest, arms around Sam’s middle. Sam weaves a hand through Brendan’s hair and absently plays with it. Sam sighs, and Brendan holds him a little tighter. Sam is more than used to snuggles in seven years of friendship, more than used to taking care of Brendan, so he’s been able to tell the difference between needy Brendan who wants someone to cuddle with because he’s down, or lonely, and this new, panicky Brendan who thinks Sam is going to evaporate or disappear.   
“I am right here,” Sam says, punctuating the words with pokes to Brendan’s shoulder. “I told you; I’m not going anywhere right now.” Brendan looks up at Sam, who makes an effort to maintain eye contact. Sam smiles his “you’re a pain in the ass” half smile.  
“I know. I just like to feel for myself sometimes.” But Brendan doesn’t actually know. He only says that to make Sam feel better. He’s kept the nightmares, sudden disgusting thoughts, and panic attack stuff from Sam but he allows himself the occasional show of weakness, the occasional necessary reminder that Sam is still here. He’s been dancing around telling Sam how scared he is, or how much he cares about Sam, (blah blah blah) for months now. It started in the patch at the beginning where he treated Sam like he was made of glass – not only did he see Sam as fragile but also as precariously balanced on a wobbly shelf - all the way to now, when they started to have pockets of normalcy. Brendan wasn’t going to forget that he nearly lost Sam, even if things went completely back to normal. He wasn’t sure that going backward to before was possible or that he’d want it that way. How long did he go thinking that Sam was okay when he was so sad he was thinking of killing himself?  
It felt like from now on he’d just have to live constantly afraid of losing Sam, like this intense anxiety about Sam will never decrease. It’s exhausting. He’s been hyperaware of Sam’s change in mood, where he is, who is with him, etc. and it’s a miracle Sam puts up with it because Brendan might go fucking crazy if he didn’t know. He’s been trying to ease up on his clinging lately, but he doesn’t want to be lulled into complacency so that he can go through it again. Sam promises everything is okay, now that he’s “talking to someone,” he’s adjusting his medication. Brendan doesn’t know how Sam can change so much both before and after it happened. It’s like someone had turned pages in a book. The Sam he used to know is not on the same page as the hospital and he’s not on the same page the Sam here now. They might not even be the same character anymore.


	45. Brendan, Present

Sam and Brendan were sleeping next to each other again. Sam’d been drinking and when he drinks he ends up at Brendan’s. It’s interesting how the tables have turned… Now Brendan makes HIM tea. He’s not supposed to drink with his medication but he does it anyway. Brendan thinks Sam is spiraling again.  
About an hour before he was lying awake next to Sam, Brendan came the closest in months to telling Sam about how he’s losing his shit. Now that he has Sam next to him, warm and safe, he is glad he didn’t, but he was so close. Sam was drunk and alone. Brendan felt like this was now par for the course with Sam – no more teasing pressure from Brendan! Sam drinks on his own. Regardless if it was because he had noticed Sam’s drinking more or if it’s a real change, his the discomfort it inspired reinforced his desire to keep a short leash on Sam. When he heard the knock on his apartment door, Brendan was awake, fiddling with his music collection and listening to the rain beat up his windows. It was one of his late-night/insomnia habits to reorganize the record collection. He’d go alphabetical by artist and/or album, chronological, or by color. It kept his mind off of the shitty stuff. Sam had been appearing on his doorstep cold, and drunk often; all the more reason to not sleep. He might be consciously organizing his collection but subconsciously he was scared to death that he’d miss the knock the text or the call from the hospital. He really didn’t mind Sam coming over or something like that, the inconsistency was okay with him and it wasn’t really a big change. It worried him, though, that he didn’t know what the fuck was going on most of the time. Sam never told him anything, regardless of the number of times he asks how Sam is or what he’s thinking or how he’s feeling, or the number of times Sam shows up drunk and sleepy on his welcome mat.  
Sam didn’t text him that night like he usually did. Brendan would get warning: “Can I come up?” or “I’m on my way to you.” Sam had knocked on the door lightly. Brendan almost didn’t hear it over the rain, but he was more aware of his surroundings at night. It was absolutely fucking pouring outside, and by the time he got to his apartment door there was a puddle of water from Sam’s clothes where he sat on the ugly hallway carpet. He sat on the floor next to Brendan’s apartment door, knees bent and his arms wrapped around them, feet twisted together, head bent forward with his hair hanging, dripping on his pants. Brendan panicked a little, thinking that something was horribly fucking wrong. He pulled his head together. He pulled Sam to his feet and brought the shivering, soaked kid inside. Sam’s shoes were wet (another unsettling sign) so he left them by the door and padded along Brendan’s hallway carpet toward the kitchen. Brendan could see the outline of wet from Sam’s feet from where his soaked socks touched the beige carpet. It looked like those footprints they used as clues in kids’ cartoons about mysteries or Looney Toons or whatever. Brendan saw Sam run his hand through his hair once, an expression like a grimace on his face.   
He looked up at Brendan, pasting on a smile. Brendan fucking loathed that Sam pretended – this was supposed to be the place where he could be honest. Brendan constantly questioned whether he had done something to show Sam that he couldn’t be himself. Brendan pretended he didn’t see the misery, smiled back, and dragged him toward the shower. He basically shoved Sam into the bathroom and made him shower. The shivering and chattering teeth turned Brendan into his mother. Brendan made sure the water was a good temperature and left Sam to go get a towel and clothes. Sam was going to sleep there, for sure, so fuck real clothes. Sweatpants were warm and comfortable and he wanted Sam to feel safe, here. When he got back, the bathroom was filled with steam and he could hear Sam open the shampoo. Brendan wanted to stay there and make sure that Sam wouldn’t do anything – whenever Sam showered he felt sick – but he controlled himself. For weeks after, Brendan had a hard time showering or going in Sam’s bathroom. He left the towel and warm clothes on the counter and stuck Sammy’s clothes in the dryer. Brendan went to make tea while he waited. He was brooding at the counter when Sam came into the kitchen, toweling his mop of hair.  
Sam sat at the kitchen table, visibly warmer after having showered and put Brendan’s dry clothes on. He was no longer shivering and his face wasn’t miserable anymore (but it wasn’t fake-happy, either). Brendan felt his chest loosen slightly. The chipped mug that Sam drank his fruity tea from has a stupid cat on it and it says “crazy cat lady.” They found it at a yard sale on one of their excursions into the ‘burbs around the city. Their trips out to find tag sales was a lot of fun. They always found weird shit but that was definitely the best day – cat mug and old record player with a needle that worked! Brendan almost brought that day up but he didn’t want Sam to turn on that stupid fake brightness while they drank their tea. Sam was looking at his hands and quietly telling some elaborate story about getting drinks with someone he works with. Brendan doesn’t really listen because he doesn’t believe it; he thinks that it’s told for his benefit, like the smile. He humors Sam with the occasional nod or “yeah” because he doesn’t know what else to do. He waited for tea to end, thinking about getting Sam to go to sleep. He really just wanted to hold Sam in bed so that he could know for sure, tangibly, that Sam’s safe.   
They get up, leaving their mugs behind (whatever) as Sam moves toward the living room. Brendan doesn’t know where Sam’s going but he grabs Sam’s hand and pulls him closer, pushing Sam’s hair away from his eyes (honey brown tonight).   
“Come on, not the couch.”  
Brendan holds on and walks to his room. Sam frowns but allows himself to be held and moved into the bedroom. Brendan, still holding his hand, pulls Sam into a tight hug that Sam tentatively returns. Brendan attempts to talk but it comes out as a whisper,  
“Stay here? With me? Please?”  
B usually offered the bed or the couch to Sam when he stayed and took the other for himself unless it was one of Brendan’s “downs.” Sam likes to sleep alone He didn’t know what Sam needed that night but he needed to be next to Sam, which meant Sam would be safe and thus it wasn’t totally selfish...   
Sam nodded. He was suddenly looking exhausted down to his bones. He unwrapped himself from Brendan and got under the covers into “his side” of the bed without removing any articles of clothing. Sam and Brendan were so different in how they liked to sleep. Brendan was usually mostly naked and Sam was dressed like he was going out in public soon. Sam lay on his back, an arm over his eyes. One of his knees was bent; the other lay flat, Sam’s hand tucked underneath his thigh. Brendan pulled his socks, pants, and t-shirt off (hey, he still had his boxers on. That counts as not naked!) and looked at Sam again. He could finally put his finger on the look on Sam’s face earlier tonight. Sam looked completely and hopelessly lost. The thought made his heart literally ache, the pain in his chest made his breath catch. Sam looked up at him, confused. Brendan shook his head, slid under the covers and got comfortable on a pillow, lying sideways. He looked at Sam for a second, then reached out and dragged Sam across the bed, pulling Sam to his chest. He curled around Sam like a snake, flush against Sam’s back, his arm beneath Sam’s neck. He moved his other arm from Sam’s hip up to the top of Sam’s ribs and back down to his hip a few times before wiggling his arm under Sam’s, wrapping Sam in his arms. Brendan’s chin rested on the top of Sam’s head. Sam pulled Brendan’s hands together, one under his neck and one up from under his arm, into his. He pushed his hips back into Brendan a little, not quite touching Brendan’s thighs with his ass. He sighed, and Brendan could see Sammybear close his eyes from where Brendan could see on the pillow. Brendan stayed awake for a while, waiting for Sam’s breathing to become even and calm. It has always seemed to Brendan that it was harder for him to fall asleep than everyone else, but for some reason having Sam there, breathing steadily next to him, made it easier.  
He fell asleep some time later, probably around two thirty. A few hours later, maybe four thirty, Brendan jerked awake. He sat up so quickly that he jostled Sam enough to roll him over from beneath Brendan’s arm to face-down on a pillow. Brendan’s breathing and heartbeat were seriously amplified but on top of that his face was wet. Fuck, fuck, fuck Brendan realized he was crying in his sleep again, Sam was in bed with him when he had a nightmare and Sam was awake now. He fucking hated waking up crying. Those dreams stuck around. He put his face in his hands, breathing heavily. He wiped his face with his fingers and tried to calm down. Aa – a deep blue hue. Bb – orange-red, Cc – lemon yellow… Sam sat up next to him, rubbing his eyes like a sleepy toddler.   
“Bren?” he rasped, his voice full of tired and sleep.  
Brendan pulled in a shaky breath, and pulled his hands away from his face. He has no idea what causes sleep-crying but it’s fucking stupid. What’s he supposed to say? ‘Yeah, Sam, ever since you tried to kill yourself I have had nightmares and wake up crying sometimes but don’t worry it’s not your fault!’ Because that’s totally comforting, obviously. And clearly totally true. He settles for—  
“It’s okay Sam.” He wipes the wet off of his hand on the sheet and rubs Sam’s back a little. “Go back to sleep.”  
Sam moves his body forward more, and Brendan pulls his hand away. Sam looked into Brendan’s face and Brendan tried to pull away before he got close. Brendan knew Sam could see that his face was all fucked from crying. Sam frowned and looked intently into Brendan’s face like he had just noticed something curious about it. He was so …intense. He focused on Brendan’s face and cupped it in his hands. He used his thumbs to brush away stray tears and trails of tears, then kissed Brendan’s forehead. Brendan felt like Sam’s attempt to help him stop crying was having the opposite result and Brendan ended up still trying to get himself under control. Sam pulled his hands back when Brendan brought his own up to shield his face and turn away. Sam saw that Brendan’s hands weren’t working as tissues (definitely weren’t hiding shit) so he pulled his own shirt off. He wrenched Brendan’s hands away, shoved it into Brendan’s face and wiggled it, like a clown would with a pie in his victim’s face. Sam pulled it back, grinning, and Brendan finally hiccupped a laugh. Sam wiped Brendan’s face with it for real. His face fell into calm and Sam looked at him quietly. Brendan would have laughed at the ridiculousness of the situation but the look on Sam’s face stopped him. So fucking intense . Brendan was uncomfortable to be the object of his scrutiny and wiggled uncomfortably. Sam tossed his shirt wherever, off the bed, and pulled Brendan back down into his arms. He lay facing Brendan with his face close to Brendan’s chest. Brendan felt his ever-calm breathing brush his chest and he fought a shiver. He tucked an arm under Sam’s neck and lay the other over Sam’s ribs. Sam had one arm curled up underneath him, hand flat on Brendan’s chest, the other on Brendan’s hip. His eyes were closed for a minute and Brendan was almost sure he was falling asleep again when Sam tilted his face up.   
“Bren-“ his voice was still scratchy so he cleared his throat. “Bren, when did you start having nightmares? I don’t remember you ever mentioning them.”  
Brendan tensed and he knew Sam felt that. Sam was looking at him intently. He clearly had an idea of what was going on but he was trying to get B to say it. Shit, he REALLY did not want to answer this question. He deflected –   
“I don’t know. A little while. Sorry for waking you up. Can you sleep like this?”  
Sam shook his head no, but shifted closer to Brendan.   
“When, Brendan?”  
Brendan paused for a few long moments. He counted and breathed. He tried to get it straight in his head, what to say. Sam sat up and looked down at Brendan, eyes wide with that fucking awful sad look that he’s been sporting lately. It always makes Brendan’s chest fucking hurt (at this point, when didn’t it hurt?). He can’t not answer when Sam makes that face. He gave up trying to compose and just said:   
“Um. Maybe… 8 weeks ago.”   
“Oh, God. Only a few weeks?” Sam searched Brendan’s face. He still rested his hand on Brendan’s hip while he propped himself up with the other. “So… recently? Since when, Brendan? For what reason?” It sounds almost accusatory now. Another pause. Brendan doesn’t know how to say it.  
“Oh, shit.” Sam clearly gave up, brought his hands to his face. Muffled: “Since you had to take me to the hospital?”  
Brendan looked away, inspecting a thread on the pillow next to his. Sam pulls his hands away from his face and shoves Brendan’s hip a little bit. Brendan looks up at Sam, who is making the face that could be likened to agony again. Sam just waits, like he knows Brendan will answer eventually. Or maybe he doesn’t want to know the answer. Brendan put his face forward into Sam’s hair, pulling his hands tighter around Sam’s chest.  
“Yeah,” He whispered, barely audible against Sam’s messy soft brown hair. Then louder, “Yeah, Sam, since then.”  
Sam’s hand clenched and gripped his hip hard. Brendan didn’t pick up his head or flinch. He let Sam go and went back to inspecting the intensely interesting thread on his pillow. Sam pulls his hand back. Brendan knows without looking that Sam was doing that thing when he’s upset where he scrubs a hand through his hair as he makes a frustrated noise. Sam laid back down, pulled Brendan closer to him, kissed his hair.   
“I’m really sorry, Brendan.”  
Brendan mumbled “It’s okay” into Sam’s shoulder (It’s not okay). It’s not really your fault, you know” (This one is true). “It’s really not a big deal.” (Yes it is.) “Can we go back to sleep now?” (Can you go back to sleep so we don’t have to talk about this anymore?)   
Sam made it clear that he doesn’t want to sleep; he must have wanted to try “fix it” or something stupid like that, like he caused it on purpose. Brendan, well, he wanted to talk about it about as much as he wants to listen to Britney Spears. That is to say, not ever, not even once, not even if he were paid. That shit is fucking awful. (Britney: Not even once.)  
“Please, Sam. I’m fine.” (Nope, really not.)   
“Yeah? I don’t know, B. That seems like a lot.”  
“No really. Fine.” (What does ‘fine’ even mean anymore?) “If you want to talk tomorrow we can but let’s go to bed now, okay?”  
Sam sighed and said, sounding resigned, “Yeah… okay.”  
Sam pulls back and Brendan rolls over so he is facing away from Sam, out toward the door of his bedroom. He’s fucking mortified and he really doesn’t want to make eye contact so he is relieved. Sam faces away, too, and rests his back against Brendan’s. Sam reaches backwards and seeks out Brendan’s hand. Brendan slides his fingers between Sam’s, who holds Brendan’s hand tightly for a second. Sam pulls his hand back, curls himself into a ball and eventually falls asleep. Brendan lies awake but eventually Sam’s even breathing pulls him to sleep, too, just before dawn.


	46. Sam, Present

Sam had gotten up after the night with the nightmares and left Brendan to sleep. He knew Brendan needed it. He sat on the couch fucking around with the acoustic that he figured Brendan hated, he was dwelling on the last 24 hours. Now, it was the next morning and Sam had gained a few things: some of Brendan’s clothes, warmth to get the chill out of his bones, a small hangover, and a considerable amount more guilt than he had already been carrying. He made Brendan have fucking nightmares? Fantastic. More damage done. And more reason to do it right next time.   
Sam feels like a giant tool for how everything went down, especially after having Brendan deal with all the consequences, but most of all he feels bad for surviving. At least then Brendan could just have healed and moved on. Now Sam has to deal with Brendan’s guilt that Sam attempted in the first place and fear if he will try again for two reasons - because if he does it again it “will be B’s fault,” and because of all of the stress resulting from the clean-up when it happened the first time. Sam tried to tell Brendan that he had no control over it and that he's not responsible for Sam’s well-being, but Brendan just looked away and shook his head. Regardless of all of his sadness and exhaustion, Sam can’t help but love this closeness he gets from Brendan, especially times like last night, sleeping next to one another. He thinks that it’s infuriating that his proximity to Brendan is something that makes him feel hope, and to actually feel a little better, because he knows, he just knows that there's no reason for all of that. But... he is slowly starting to change a little, though. It's creeping in despite himself - maybe Brendan does love him. They've spent a lot of time together over the years but Brendan isn't the type to just hang around for no reason.  
Brendan wanders in, scratching his tummy and looking squinty-eyed and disheveled in that sexy way people look in the morning. Sam has been thinking a lot about the long looks B has been giving him lately. He doesn't know what they mean and they make him feel really strange. He looks back, this time. Holds eye contact. Brendan shifts from foot to foot but holds his gaze, finally bringing his hand slowly down from under his shirt. He looks away first and Sam feels somehow that he lost a battle.  
"Food?"  
"Nah man, I'm good. I'm gonna shower though, okay?"  
"Yeah, alright."  
Sam gets up to go shower, setting the acoustic aside. Brendan comes back into the room, catches Sam's arm.   
“Wait a sec. I want to tell you something. I’ve been having nightmares since that night - you know, I told you that. I dream that I get there too late. I dream about seeing you in pale as death. I dream about what it would be like living without you. I dream a hundred other horrible things, not always to do with you but I am sure they have to do with whatever shit my brain went through when I almost lost you.”   
Brendan huffs a laugh, bending his head down further, still holding onto Sam.   
“It – I – don’t know what to do without you. We both just give up. I know that my reactions are ridiculous. You’re fine. But I can’t seem to control it. I get these – I don’t know – flashbacks? Like a soldier does or something. I will be reading and suddenly there you are in my head, sitting in the shower bleeding everywhere. Or I’ll be playing something and then you’re being taken, you’re being taken away from me at the ER and I feel like-”  
Brendan takes a shaky breath.   
“I feel like I’m there Sam. Like I’m watching them take you away from me, looking like you’re already dead, and I am beyond sure that I’m seeing you for the last time.”   
He stops again, panting, thinking it’s too much, too much information for Sam. It’s quiet for what feels like forever and Brendan has to fill it again.   
“Not only that shit, but I feel like every fucking time I see you I have to remember each moment just in case you’re suddenly gone. I didn’t suspect last time. I didn’t fucking know things were that bad and you’re my best fucking friend! I didn’t see that you were unhappy! What the fuck is wrong with me? Well I see it now, dude, really, and I’m just waiting for you to give up on life, on me. You’re carrying the weight of the world, like Atlas, and I just know it’s gonna get too heavy.”  
Sam feels dizzy, like he's going to shake out of his skin. Awful.  
“I can’t sleep worse than before, can’t eat, also worse than before. I just keep thinking about how the hell I’d be able to get my shit together without you. I couldn’t. And I don’t know how to help you, Sammy. I want to, so bad. I want to carry some of that burden you’re carrying but you just won’t let me.”   
Brendan takes a shuddering breath. He’s going to lose it soon.  
“You won’t let me in, Sam. I want to help – I want to take care of you. Fuck, I love you so much. You’re like the sun – it all revolves around you. You’re everything to me, Sam. Everything. I just don’t know how…”   
Sam kisses Brendan. Hard.   
Sam pushes him backward, so he’s on top of Brendan this time and his hands are everywhere: hips, shoulders neck, wrists, thighs. He’s kissing Brendan’s neck and saying things that are barely audible, whispering to Brendan – “I’m right here, Bren.” Or “It’s okay.” Or “I’m so fucking sorry.”  
Sam’s freaking the fuck out. He just listened to what sounded like Brendan pouring his heart out and is now full of this guilt and passion and love of his own that he needs to get out. He knows it’s rude to cut Brendan off but he can’t help it – he just has to kiss him right goddamn now. He thinks while he gets all of that energy out, though. His brain stays on this time. Brendan was – What? He just listened to Brendan – when? How? God, he just really didn’t know what was going on. Is this another one of those dreams where he wakes up happy, like actually truly happy, and then realizes all that shit wasn’t true? He wants to pinch himself but he’s scared he’s dreaming and he isn’t ready to wake up yet. He just has to know what Brendan’s thinking, here, though, before he keeps going.   
Sam pulls back, panting from all of the stuff going on in his head (and in his pants) and leans against Brendan’s forehead. They’ve done this hundreds of times by now, being this close without it being tension-y (at least it seemed that way for Brendan. Sam always felt tension…) and now it feels like you could cut it with a knife. Sam has to ask, though. He just has to.   
“Please tell me you meant what you said, Brendan. If you’re dicking around or if this is something you’re making up to make sure I don’t kill myself I need to know right fucking now.”  
He knows his eyes and face must look pathetic – a mixture of that passion, and hope and that unbearable sadness all at once. There’s a pause and Sam counts to fifteen in his head. He doesn’t turn away from Brendan, still makes eye contact. He’s serious about this answer. Thirteen. Fourteen. … Fifteen. Okay, well if he’s not going to say anything, he must not have meant it. I can’t handle this right now. Sam moves back, pulling his face from Brendan’s and sliding off the couch. He gets to the kitchen and grabs his keys and phone, then Brendan is standing in front of him, blocking his way. Brendan puts his hands back on Sam’s face, looking with those gray-blue eyes that seem so sad right now, and kisses him back, the way Sam had kissed a few minutes ago. Soft, gentle and sweet.   
“I meant every single fucking word, Sam. I just didn’t want to make things harder on you by throwing this shit at you too. You’ve got a lot to deal with… yeah, pretty much all the time. The last thing you need is the person you thought was your best friend wanking over you.”   
Sam barks a laugh, not expecting Brendan to be so candid, particularly with regards to “wanking.” Brendan smiled, but only slightly.   
“I mean it, Sam. I don’t want to complicate things. I’m really worried about you and I can’t fuck this up.”  
Sam pauses for a second, really thinking about what Brendan’s saying. He gets caught on one bit, though and says,  
“You seriously wank thinking about me?”  
“Yes, obviously. That mouth, Sam. Jesus Christ.”  
“Shut up douche.”  
“Nah, man. Really. That mouth of yours has done unspeakable things to me, just, like, in my head… when you’re not here, of course!”  
Sam laughs. “Sure dude. I’ve totally heard you wank before. Not that I think you were wanking about me but don’t straight up lie like you don’t fuck your hand while I’m on the couch.”  
“Seriously? How can you hear me out here?”  
“You are loud.”  
“Oh my god no I’m not. Not that loud!”  
Brendan simultaneously looks horrified, disgusted with himself, and apprehensive, so Sam pulls Brendan closer. Sam’s smile disappears , a more serious look taking over. Brendan’s look is replaced by what is still difficult to describe, that intensity, again. Sam stands on his toes, kissing along Brendan’s jaw to his ear, down to his collarbone. He presses one hand along the opposite side of Brendan’s neck to steady himself while kissing his way up Brendan’s jaw and sifts Brendan’s soft hair through his fingers.   
Brendan pulls back, looks Sam in the eye. "Sammy, I love you."  
Sam closes his eyes. His therapist is going to love this shit. "I love you too, Brendan. So fucking much."


	47. Sam, Present

Brendan kisses Sam, pulling him as he walks backwards down the hall to his bedroom. Sam keeps kissing sliding his hands over Brendan’s chest and seriously outlined abs. He even has those amazing v-shaped muscles that slide over his hips, directing you to the best parts to play with. Sam runs his thumbs along these muscles, hands wrapped around his hips. Sam is sliding his fingers beneath Brendan’s pants, gently rubbing his thumbs along the line where hips meet thighs. He gets dangerously close then pulls his thumb back up and runs it down again. Brendan’s hand grips Sam’s side as he fumbles with the doorknob, trying to get into his room.  
Brendan breaks the kiss with an exasperated sigh. He turns around, frustrated, and opens the door with force. Sam is suddenly nervous. His brain is starting up again. Is he about to have sex with his best friend? What if they fuck this up? Is this even real? How could Brendan think all of those things? Does Brendan find him attractive? Then Brendan’s there again, holding his waist, pulling him close for a sweet, quiet kiss.   
“I’ve thought about this for a long time, Sam. If you’re happy, and you want to be here with me, then stop thinking so much.” Brendan leans back a little, brushing his thumb over the worry lines in Sam’s forehead, smoothing them out and pushing Sam’s hair back.   
Sam pulls up on his toes again and Brendan slides his hands around Sam’s back. He moves them back, propping himself against the wall; he holds one arm around Sam’s shoulders and the other around Sam’s waist – he presses their bodies together, close as they can get. Sam is a little self-conscious of how turned on he is. He’s always tried really hard to hide how attracted he is to Brendan to keep their friendship safe. Now, though, there’s no pretending, especially when their bodies are flush, propped against the wall next to the bed. But Sam can feel Brendan’s answering hardness against his hip and he smiles into the kiss. He slides himself sideways, just a little, brushing their cocks together and then pushing forward and up with his hips. Both boys pull back with a gasp, Brendan bites Sam’s lip hard, and Sam grips Brendan’s side so tightly he’s sure he left a bruise.  
Sam blinks his eyes open. They are so close that their noses almost touch and both boys are panting. Brendan has a look on his face that Sam’s never seen before. He barely gets a moment to register what it means when Brendan is pushing him gently toward the bed, pulling Sam’s shirt off over his head. Sam smiles a little at the fact that Brendan is the one doing the pushing. It makes Sam more relaxed and more eager at once. The back of Sam’s knees hit the bed and they stop. Sam tightens his hands into fists at his sides to keep himself in control as Brendan kisses his way down Sam’s neck. He nips across Sam’s collarbone. He likes paying attention to the smooth curve where Sam’s neck meets his shoulder and Sam might have moaned a little when Brendan fisted Sam’s hair and licked straight up his neck. Brendan taking control was so fucking hot. Sam was breathless, unbelieving that this was reality. His thoughts flit to “I have to be dreaming” but then Brendan kisses down Sam’s chest to his nipple. Brendan focuses his attention here for awhile. He uses both tongue and teeth, causing a little pain and then soothing it. It was like a combination of hot and cold and after about 30 seconds Sam was all but writhing, trying to get closer to Brendan. B slides his hands everywhere that he can reach, keeping it to his fingertips, gentle. He grazes Sam’s neck, chest, sides, and eventually the front of his sweatpants. Sam chokes trying to breath and Brendan laughs. He pulls back to grin at Sam, who just can’t- he doesn’t even- then moves to tonguing the other nipple, which is pierced.   
Sam can’t take the focus being on solely him anymore (that and maybe if they don’t stop he will come in his pants like he’s thirteen). He unclenches his fists and pulls Brendan away from him. Brendan frowns a bit, confused, perhaps, so Sam kisses him, hard. Sam gets wrapped up on Brendan’s hair and tongue and lips but he doesn’t forget to slide his hands around the waist of Brendan’s pants. He works Brendan’s shirt up to his chest, still kissing. Sam pulls back and wrestles Brendan out of his tiny shirt. Brendan leans forward, kissing Sam again, leaning him back, finally horizontal, against the bed. Sam’s on his back and totally out of it – he so much in shock from Brendan’s incredible tongue and the surprise of the situation that he barely registers that Brendan has kissed his way down his stomach. Brendan’s lips graze where Sam’s hips meet his pants. Sam makes a low moan, shifting on the bed, hands finding Brendan’s hair. Brendan slides his fingers gently along Sam’s cock and Sam arches up into the touch. Sam looks down at Brendan. He and looks up, making eye contact with Sam and makes that mystery face again. It can only be described as “intensity.” Brendan continues to look Sam in the eye as he slides his fingers under Sam’s sweatpants, at the top, sliding them down. Sam is very aware, suddenly, that he is going commando. He shuts his eyes, hoping he won’t see the look on Brendan’s face when he’s disappointed with what he got himself into, or is disgusted. Brendan slides back up from where he took Sam’s pants off, kissing his way from Sam’s sexy fucking thighs, up to where Sam has his eyes forcefully shut and is breathing raggedly. Brendan kisses Sam again, slow, careful. Sam’s amazed at Brendan’s gentleness and opens them again. Not that he can control his breathing or anything else for that matter. Brendan is leaning over the top of him, feet still on the floor, while Sam lies on Brendan’s bed with his knees bent at the edge. Sam can’t help himself. He pulls on Brendan’s waist so that he’s crawling forward, straddling Sam’s hips.


	48. Brendan, Present

“Holy shit, holy shit, oh god that’s so hot, holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.” This has been Brendan’s thought process for the last twenty minutes. Brendan has never seen anyone react to touch as much as Sam. A graze of his fingers to a kiss to biting Sam a little harder than he usually bites (when he’s messing around, not fucking!) can get such an intense, sexy reaction from Sam that Brendan thinks he might just come from watching Sam.   
Right now, he’s got Sam’s shirt off for the first time in this way. Sam rarely takes clothes off in his presence, and if he does, Sam’s shirt usually stays put. Sam was really self-conscious about the difference in their body types, though he’s perfectly fit, ab outlines and all. Sam thought everyone was supposed to look emaciated like Brendan, or whatever. Brendan had the opposite thought process, actually. He really firmly believed that Sam’s was the more desirable body type. What a fucking mess. Anyway, Sam’s shirt is off. Brendan takes a second to appreciate this with his eyes, then moves to using his mouth and hands. He wants to touch everywhere, map Sam’s body with his fingertips. He wants to remember every muscle reaction, Sam’s breathing patterns, heartbeat, freckles that (apparently) line his shoulders.   
Brendan can’t believe this took so long. It’s awesome. He loves that spot between where Sam’s neck slopes up as Sam leans to give Brendan better access – Brendan isn’t sure he knows he’s moaning or whatever, but it’s hot as fuck – and where his shoulder freckles lighten and reach his neck. He kisses his way up and down, loving the fist in his hair. It’s like Sam’s driving, showing B what he likes. Brendan gets so into it that he just licks Sam, shoulder to ear. Sam shivers. He has goosebumps on his arms. God, Brendan wants to do that all the time. He wants to be the reason Sam reacts like this. How many came before him that got to see this side of Sam? Brendan’s jealousy was only momentary and he brought his attention back to the amazing in front of him.  
Oh and Sam’s chest is just so sexy. Brendan knew he had his nipple pierced. You can see it through most of Sam’s t-shirts when he goes without a second shirt on top. Sam came back with it one night after drinking with a friend who was visiting town, he’s wanted to see what reaction he’d get out of Sam by playing with it. Brendan had avoided the piercing-outing and is very glad he did; he’s sure Sam wouldn’t have come home with it otherwise. He plays for a few minutes on the unpierced nipple, saving the other for after. He’s mapping Sam’s chest and listening to his breathing change or the noises he’d make at the attention until his hand slips down. He’d gotten distracted by the thought of what else he’d been missing under Sam’s clothes and his hand brushed Sam’s erection. Sam gasps loudly at just the graze of his hand and Brendan laughs in spite of himself. He pulls back, makes eye contact, and he can’t help but grin like an idiot at Sam’s flushed face. He looks so thoroughly kissed and turned on that Brendan just wants to skip all the foreplay, tear his clothes off, and fuck like animals. However. He knows the risk he’s taking by crossing this line, so he can’t just lose all of the good stuff in-between. What if it never happens again? What if Sam doesn’t want to talk anymore? Or worse, what if Sam “does it right?” Brendan has to catalogue those memories and he wants this to matter. He wants to really be with Sam. Plus, if this is what it looks like when you play with Sam’s nipple then imagine the reaction when Brendan finally gets to get on his knees for Sam. He puts his head back down, still grinning, and focuses his attention on teasing Sam with the piercing.  
Brendan was just getting into playing with the cold metal bar with his tongue and kissing Sam’s chest when Sam pulls him back up. Brendan is really worried he did something wrong – it would be just his luck. He frowns a little; if Sam wants to stop, Brendan is going to stop. He’s not going to guilt Sam into it or something but he’s allowed to not understand. Then Sam kisses him, hard. Brendan gets dizzy from the way Sam puts all of himself into the kiss. Sam pulls back and says,  
“Give me a second. I feel like I’m a teenager,” Sam pants out. Then Sam kisses Brendan again.  
He presses against Sam and shifts him backward, against the bed. He lies Sam down horizontally on the mattress and stands up, using the fact that he’s standing and Sam isn’t to his advantage. He gets to look, really look, at Sam. Sam already looks like he’s been well-fucked. Sam’s hair is messed up and sticking out in all different directions but it just makes Brendan want to run his fingers through it more. Sam’s mouth is red and swollen from kissing but he’s never looked more kissable. His breathing is ragged, but Brendan wants to keep going and try to take Sam’s breath away. Brendan is overwhelmed. He wished that he had one of Sam’s cameras with him so he could have a photo of Sam like this, stretched out on the bed and looking wanton.


	49. Sam, Past

Sam got out of work at the normal time. He didn't text Brendan, though, like he usually would. He'd been avoiding it for days... That talk and that kiss fucked everything up. He started walking to the venue, anyway. This band he hadn't seen since they met was playing. He couldn't believe they were still around, though they'd changed their stupid name. It used to have something to do with penguins or some shit but now it was "The Inevitable." He was taking the show as a sign that he should nut up and confront Brendan. He needed to know where they stood so he could figure his shit out. He wasn't sure where to go from here.  
He brought his camera, too. It was the first time in nearly two months since he'd had it out for something and he was starting to feel guilty for neglecting her. He planned on doing a comparative from the first time he met Brendan at the show and the band from then to what they looked and played like now. It would be so neat after, he thought. He'd take photos and talk to Brendan after his shift. He definitely wasn't putting it off at all. Nope.  
He made it to the venue while they were setting up. He smiled a little at Brendan, throwing around the pieces of the stage. It was like nothing had changed.   
Sam shrugged his coat off and walked over to the bar.   
"Hi Lauren."  
She grunted at him and Sam stuck his coat under the bar next to Brendan's. He straightened up and fucked with his hair a little.   
"He won't even notice Sam. It's been like seven years."  
"Shut up, bitch." Sam pushed her playfully. She'd gotten used to him and he'd grown so much more comfortable with her since they'd first met.   
"Just saying, asshole. Kevin's here, too. Watch out."  
"Uh, okay? I don't think I know Kevin."  
Her eyebrows shot up to her hairline, judging. Sam shrugged and she turned back to her customers. He stood there another minute, collecting himself. She handed him a shot. Sam looked at Lauren questioningly and she just shrugged. Sam did the shot and walked over to the stage area where the first band, something generic that just screamed and had no talent behind their noise was starting up. They'd seen enough openers to know what was shit and what wasn't.   
Sam was fiddling with his camera at the edge of the crowd when some guy comes over and nudges him.   
"Hey there, Sam."  
Sam looks up at someone vaguely familiar. Sam immediately turns into his awkward-kid-self, shuffling his feet.   
"Um, hey."  
"Don't remember me, do you? We had an epic conversation about the Velvet Underground once, at a party, before Brendan dragged you home."  
Sam blushed. He couldn't help it. He was pretty sure this guy flirted with him, HARD, and even kissed him before Sam just left him without so much as his phone number. That was the first time Brendan really kissed him. It was easy to see why the first part of the night blurred...  
"I uh, I remember."  
"Good. I remember you. You kiss like you mean it, Sam. Want me to get you a drink?"  
"Um, I guess? I mean, uh, sure."  
The guy pulled away - Sam had barely realized how close to him the guy had been while he was talking. He really needed to get control of himself. He looked up and caught Brendan looking at him, but he looked away almost as soon as Sam saw him. He looked vaguely upset. Shit shit shit. Tonight was not going to go well if he's already upset with Sam. Shit.   
The guy comes back with whiskey and Sam knocks his back. The two shots barely did anything but he was starting to relax, at least a little.  
"Uh, so, how has it been? Since I last saw you?"  
Kevin grinned. He was attractive - brown hair, artfully disheveled, deep brown eyes. It made Sam so uncomfortable.  
"I have been well, Sammy. How are you doing? You here to see the Inevitable?"  
"Yeah, it's been a long time since I've seen them. I'm gonna take photos." He awkwardly holds up his camera and catches the guy's eye before looking back at his shoes again.   
"I'd love to see them sometime." The guy purrs this at Sam, into his ear. Sam keeps looking down at his feet, clears his throat.   
"I, um. I'm not good at it. I just do it for, uh, fun?" Sam looks up again.  
"Oh, Sammy, I bet you are just fantastic at this. Just as good as you are at kissing." The guy puts his hand on Sam's neck as he says this, by the back. Sam shuffles his feet and scrunches up his shoulders a little. He can't help it. The guy laughs, still quietly, in Sam's ear.   
"Okay, too far. I'll stop. Here's my number. If you're still interested in talking or hanging out after my set you know how to get me."  
He slips a napkin into Sam's hand. Sam looks up again, startled.   
"You're in the band?"  
"Yup. The Inevitable. I'm even more invested in your photos, and you, than anyone else would be."   
He winks, the spins and walks away. Sam stands there for a minute, shocked. He goes to get another drink. Fuck this weird night.  
He gets to the bar and Lauren's got her pissed off face on.  
"What's wrong Laur?"  
She just glares at him and ignores him.  
"Can I have a whiskey? Please?"   
She slams his glass on the counter and goes to the other end of the bar. Okay...  
The Inevitable plays. They're pretty fucking good and they are on, tonight. Kevin keeps looking over at Sam and smiling while he plays. He's on the bass, playing well. Sam can tell he's really in sync with his bandmates. He can't find Brendan in the crowd or at the back, so he sticks to taking photos. He's got a few good ones so far. Their lead is photogenic.  
The set ends and Sam goes back to the bar to wait while they break down the set. Most of the kids are shuffling out. Sam sits at the bar, not drinking. He scrolls through his pictures and helps Lauren clean up the glasses. He looks up and that guy from before is talking to Brendan. He glances at the bar and back to Brendan, and Sam doesn't think the guy saw him. Brendan looks shaken. Sam doesn't understand until the guy is suddenly kissing Brendan. Brendan's hands go to the guy's hips and Sam turns and just walks out. He's outside and across the parking lot before he realizes how hard he's gripping his camera. He goes home and lies in bed all night, awake.


	50. Brendan, Past

He was on top of Kevin in the back of Kevin's tour van. The Inevitable had gone out for drinks and Kevin had begged out so they ended up here. Brendan certainly wasn't bringing Kevin home with him. He kissed Kevin hard, shoving thoughts and doubts back. This didn't matter. He wasn't in any kind of relationship with Sam. Fuck, it'd been DAYS since he'd heard from Sam. Sam showed tonight and completely ignored him, only to talk to this fuck-  
Brendan moved to Kevin's neck, licking a stripe up from his collarbone to his ear. Kevin groans, pushing his hands under Brendan's hoodie, up his back, and pushes his head back farther. Brendan has always loved this part of hooking up with Kevin, because even though the asshole puts up a big front, he comes the fuck apart under Brendan. He cants his hips forward, rubbing their cocks together. Kevin inhales sharply and reaches around to unbutton his own pants. Brendan pulls back, moves down to Kevin's waist. They have enough room that Kevin can stay supine while Brendan moves down his body. Brendan pushes Kevin's t-shirt up to reveal his heavily tattooed waist and chest. Kevin shimmies his boxers and pants down. Brendan traces the tattoos with his tongue. He bends his neck to take Kevin's too-wide and too-short dick into his mouth.  
How the fuck did he get here? He was in the middle of yelling at Kevin for hitting on Sam and then they were kissing and he just... let go. It had been too much effort to say no, even after all this time and even though he was in love with Sam.   
\---  
"Kevin!"   
"Yes, my dear?"  
"Fuck you," Brendan spat. "Keep your hands your mouth and your fucking dick away from Sam. You don't know what you're doing or who you're fucking with right now."  
"I think I know just exactly who I'm fucking with, love. And I want to keep doing it, too. He's adorable, especially when he blushes."  
"I'm telling you now, you fuck, back off or I will make you."   
"I love it when you're angry, Brendy-bear. It gets me all hot and bothered."  
He grins that shit-eating grin that he saves for when he's fucking with Brendan and Brendan clenches his fists.   
"Fuck. You."   
Kevin leans forward, getting into Brendan's space.  
"Absolutely, dear." He flicks a glance over his shoulder then leans in. "Anything you want." And he kisses Brendan.  
Brendan reaches out and puts his hands on Kevin's hips to shove him away but he finds himself pulling Kevin closer. He can feel Kevin grinning into the kiss and it's infuriating but he just can't stop. He's had too much lately. He hasn't been laid in months and he can't keep pining for someone who doesn't love him back.  
\---  
He makes Kevin come as quickly as he can. He's done this too many times to count so he knows what he's doing. He twists just right and sucks and licks and Kevin's come undone in under five minutes.  
"God, I almost forgot what you could do with your tongue."  
Brendan's pushing against Kevin, who takes him in his hand and finishes him. Brendan and Kevin lie next to each other, panting, and Brendan's already feeling the guilt. It never takes long to set in. He shouldn't have done this. He's fixing his pants and leaving as Kevin calls "Thanks Brendy-bear. See you soon!" out of the van and laughing. Brendan runs home and then lies awake thinking about all of the mistakes he's made recently. He can never sleep after he hooks up with Kevin, anyway.


End file.
